<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Warmest Touch Is the One of a Friend by ArcheaMajuar</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653622">The Warmest Touch Is the One of a Friend</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar'>ArcheaMajuar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Horse Racing, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:27:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>37,092</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>My first case fic. It, of course, features Hercule Poirot and Arthur Hastings who venture to the countryside in order to solve a murder, connected to the sport of horse racing. During the investigation, also other truths and burried memories are unearthed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Hastings/Hercule Poirot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>English is not my mother tongue as I'm from the Czech Republic. There are mistakes in the story, I know, but I don't have anyone around to give me their feedback on the fic, grammar and so on (but if you'd like to let me know about the mistakes, please, do so in the comments bellow or just send me an email (you find it on my profile page), it'd be much appreciated)</p><p>I'm really sorry for the errors, but I hope you'll enjoy this work anyway :)</p><p>Some other things I'd like to stress:<br/>1, The story is written in the third person, however, the POVs alternate<br/>2, I'm very much interested in horse racing, especially in National Hunt, therefore, some of the names might occur familiar to you, but... it's purely coincidental :D<br/>3, A song called Cold by Editors inspired me to write this fiction, the lyrics a bit correlate with the story, and it also helped me to come up with the title... I hope it doesn't sound as creepy as I was told by a friend :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the 13<sup>th</sup> of December. The weather in London was slightly chilly, which seemed to be an almost welcomed alteration to the usual dampness lingering in the air. Otherwise, it was an ordinary evening for Hercule Poirot safe for one simple issue, unnerving the little detective significantly and as always, this <em>issue</em> regarded his dearest friend. Hardly ever had he been deterred by anyone else in such a way. He was annoyed and worried at once and Hastings with his lost expression and puppy-like eyes tended to drive him into such a state on regular basis.</p><p>They had spent a pleasant day together. After Poirot was done with his letters, they took a short walk, ate at a nice restaurant before they returned home to simply savour the peace and quiet which the both of them deserved for another case that was successfully solved. The fraud was arrested three day ago, and it was exactly three days since Hastings had become behaving in quite an odd way.</p><p>He still was a very amiable companion, but it did not slip Poirot’s attention the Englishman was often occupied with his own thoughts, dwelling on them for several minutes, and moreover, if Hastings happened to be caught in the middle of his pondering, he would avert his eyes from Poirot’s, staring at the floor while his cheeks were gaining a shade of pink colour. It intrigued Poirot immensely as it was rather clear there was something on Hastings’ mind, about which the Englishman was at most embarrassed just to be pondering.</p><p>It irritated Poirot because Hastings kept doing it for three consecutive days, and it worried Poirot because he knew what could have forced his friend into such a condition. He felt that the potential discussion of the topic was not going to be enjoyable, yet inevitable.</p><p>As he was against talking serious matters with an empty stomach, Poirot opted for soothing his nerves with a little bit of his culinary skills, preparing them quite a decent meal that he hoped would ease the tension building up not necessarily between them, but primarily in Hastings’ posture. To Poirot’s mild delight, the Englishman relaxed marginally during their chat about this and that, which pleased Poirot, uplifting his spirits as his idea was on the spot once again.</p><p>Once they finished their dinner, Poirot urged Hastings back to the main room where the detective seated himself behind the desk as he meant to provide Hastings with as much space as he needed, but somewhere deep within his soul he knew it was pure cowardice. He sat behind the desk to shield himself from Hastings, who remained standing even though Poirot suggested he, naturally, could sit down. With his hands shoved in pockets, he halted at the window, looking in the dark streets of London.</p><p>“Do you know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” surprised Hastings his friend not only with the question itself, but mostly with the grave tone his voice resonated with.</p><p>Poirot swallowed hardly while the only thing preventing him from shaking was the soft edge of Hastings’ voice in combination with the fact they had been chuckling in the kitchen only minutes ago. Clinging to this recent memory, Poirot was not scared of losing his dearest friend anymore.</p><p>“I do not know for sure, but I can imagine,” said Poirot, placing his hands upon the desk, watching Hastings warily. “It concerns our last case, yes?”</p><p>“Yes… Yes, indeed,” nodded the Englishmen, turning to the detective, but keeping the distance between them.</p><p>Under different circumstances, Poirot would’ve been curious about what Hastings was thinking about as their most recent case was pretty straightforward. He was hired by lady Houblon to investigate a very mysterious evaporation of her precious piece of jewellery. From her point of view, it was a mystery as the only three people occupying the house were her husband William, his personal servant, and the maid. She trusted her husband and the maid with all her heart while the servant was trusted by her husband, so she couldn’t wrap her head around it.</p><p>However, once Poirot weighed all the possibilities, he concluded the thief must’ve been one of the residents of the house, and soon enough he was quite sure it was the servant, Kyle Mallory. He stole the jewels in order to sell them and flee to America for he seemed to be in danger, which Poirot grasped from the anxiety he was sporting, yet in the closeness of his master he appeared to be consoled.</p><p>And this matter was probably part of the issue that had been troubling Hastings for the past few days.</p><p>“Please, Hastings, tell me what is bothering you so much and I will try to explain if it helps,” suggested Poirot, though wondering where his courage had come from as he feared Hastings’ reaction. Still, he preferred having no secrets and consequently, he wished not to be insincere with Hasting as it could possibly result into their estrangement.</p><p>Hastings snorted, gazing incredulously at Poirot, but in the end he moved towards a tray where a bottle of bourbon was placed.</p><p>“I’m going to need this,” Poirot heard him mumbling before he poured himself a decent amount of the beverage, devouring half of it in two large gulps. Only then Hastings casted a glance at Poirot, seemingly a bit bolder than just a few seconds ago. “You do recall the moment we entered Mr Houblon’s office, don’t you?”</p><p>“I do, Hastings, and I am well aware precisely of what I saw seen there,” was the answer, Poirot’s voice low and firm, not allowing any space for doubts.</p><p>The reply apparently pulled the rug out from Hastings’ feet. He blinked rapidly, his mouth slightly agape.</p><p>“You do?” blurting out, he was so taken aback he had to sat down. Fortunately, there was a sofa located right behind him.</p><p>“Of course, I do, what have you been expecting? That old Poirot doesn’t know things?” Poirot raised his eyebrows, feeling mildly amused by the shocked look on Hastings’ face. “Let me assure you, my dear Hastings, that I most certainly noticed the way Monsieur Houblon was embracing his servant. I also observed he was ruffling his hair and holding his hand in the very second we opened the door. Moreover, they didn’t even try to conceal their behaviour as they both presumed they were going to prison,” added Poirot gravely, his voice vibrating with deep despair.</p><p>“Well… I expected that as well, but you sorted the situation out differently,” said Hastings, his blue eyes transfixed on the man behind the desk. “But why, Poirot? Why haven’t you revealed their relationship when your silence can come back to you?”</p><p>The shadow of desperation within Hastings’ questions somehow warmed Poirot’s heart as he sensed that Hastings was probably more troubled by his friend getting into trouble, yet Poirot was reluctant to show he was touched. Hastings had to understand one thing, “I’m willing to send a man on the gallows for murdering another man, but not for loving one.”</p><p>Poirot clearly saw as Hastings winced and avoid his eyes, probably fighting all kinds of emotions storming inside him.</p><p>“It might be a weak consolation to you, but I didn’t hesitate to have Monsieur Mallory arrested. He had stolen the jewels in order to sell them and flee with his lover from the country, so the imprisonment for the theft is adequate, but I believe there is no reason for capital punishment, Hastings,” he elaborated even though he wasn’t certain whether Hastings was paying any attention to him. “And the same applies to Monsieur Houblon. You have grown quite amicable with him, haven’t you?”</p><p>“Yes… Yes, I did,” agreed the Englishman quietly, staring on the carpet solemnly. “He seemed to be a decent chap.”</p><p>“And you still would want me to turn him in?” Poirot asked, figuring he was in a position of power, being rather close to persuade Hastings entirely, therefore he exploited his power to make Hastings realize what his Victorian attitude could cause, “You know, Hastings, there’s always another option. If you so much want these people to be hanged, you could turn them in yourself.”</p><p>Poirot barely refrained from smiling viciously when Hastings abruptly glanced up, but every trace of glee vanished in the instance he noticed how pained Hastings’ expression was. The urge to apologize clashed with his pride, shame mingled with anger, so he opted for twisting the subject a bit, “But I know, you will not do it.”</p><p>He said that because he had decided to come clean. Hastings deserved it. If there was a reason for justification of breaking a law, Poirot was about to give it Hastings, hoping that Hastings’ loyalty would outplay his morality.            </p><p>“Honestly, I have no idea what I should do…” Hastings sighed tiredly, eyes wandering around the room, looking like a lost puppy. “I feel obliged to remain as law-abiding as possible, but at once… I don’t mean Bill any harm. How… how should I cope with this situation without seeing myself as a traitor?”</p><p>“Or a hypocrite,” said Poirot under his breath, not sure whether he wanted Hastings to hear it, but his friend only nodded as if he took it in account, gazing now in his glass, drinking the rest of the bourbon in the next second.</p><p>“I just… why…” he looked at Poirot in desperation. “I’ve thought you were Catholic! Catholic and against man loving another man… I… I haven’t expected…”</p><p>“Being one of those, Hastings?” folded Poirot his cards on the table for Hastings to see. “Because, indeed, I am. I am a man that is prone to love another man, yet who does not tend to behave in that manner.”</p><p>His unyielding gaze was piercing through Hastings’ skin right into his soul. The Englishman hiccupped, gawking at the Belgian detective while his hands were obviously shaking, teardrops of sweat appeared on his forehead.</p><p>“I am Catholic, this is true, but I had to altered my believes to such extend I am able to accept myself the way I am, which I do. There is nothing wrong with loving another man, however, as I said, I do not pursue a relationship because of the danger it might put me in, and it might put you in, as well,” Poirot continued, using the moment of silence to explain himself properly, more or less expecting Hastings to question his statement, but his friend remained quiet.</p><p>He remained quiet for another couple of minutes, his eyes drifting away from Poirot to the floor, and he knew that Hastings was furiously thinking, so he didn’t intervene and waited patiently, yet being a bundle of nerves.</p><p>“So this is the reason why you haven’t turn them in,” Hastings was now thinking aloud. He wasn’t asking as it was apparently clear to him, “But… if you’re like them… I mean…”</p><p>“Immoral? Disgusting? Or both?” Poirot couldn’t reign his temper, suggesting the worst Hastings could’ve been feeling, but he immediately experienced a huge wave of relief once Hastings looked up to him, alerted, and shook his head vehemently.</p><p>“No, nothing of these, but… I just don’t know what to say. I simply didn’t see it coming,” curled his lips in a lost, yet absolutely adorable attempt at smiling, which spread warmth throughout Poirot’s chest.</p><p>Reciprocating the gesture and internally scolding himself for putting such ideas into the mind of Hastings that was so pure and beautiful, and subsequently he once again happened to be fascinated by the determination and the courage Hastings was displaying. Despite the fact that conversation about the sexuality of his dear friend must’ve been very, very difficult for an Englishman, he seemed adamant about elaborating on the topic, sorting it out for the both of them.</p><p>“Well, I somehow feel I should be disgusted, but I’m not. It’s more like something I was taught by the society to feel. A man loving another man… I’ve heard it’s not natural, but once there’s love involved, it can’t be bad, can it?” was the pair of heavenly blue eyes fixed upon Poirot as if he was seeking affirmation.</p><p>“I see it this way, too,” Poirot agreed, relaxing slightly as the so long secret was finally revealed, moreover, Hastings was still here, still friendly, still with that devoted look in his eyes. One could easily be fooled by the idea Hastings was in love with him without noticing it, but it was hard to fool Poirot, so he rather persuaded himself the Englishman just immensely admired him. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less.</p><p>“However… Poirot… You haven’t told me earlier out of fear I’d turn you in, right?” sounded Hastings so helpless, the shadow of compassion crossed Poirot’s face. It pained him he didn’t tell it even his closest friend on one hand, but on the other one… he didn’t need to talk about it in the first place. It was a personal matter while they did not tend to discuss these… things.</p><p>“Exactement. You are my very friend, Hasting, however, you are a strictly law-abiding man. I did not wish to take any risks,” he answered, watching Hastings carefully as he kept being quite puzzled, his inner struggle quite visible in the expression of his slightly flushed face. “I assumed you’d perceive it as at least highly immoral.”</p><p>“Immoral… It could be immoral, but most importantly it’s against the law, Poirot!” flashed him Hastings with a desperate, frightened look. Trembling, he jumped up to his feet, pacing in the room like a tiger in the cage, also quite resembling one.</p><p>“You’re my friend, Hastings…” slipped out from Poirot’s lips without thinking, yet he quickly regained self-control, preventing himself to voice the plea he had on the tip of the tongue. He wasn’t going to beg. There was some dignity to maintain! If Hastings wanted to betray him…</p><p>“I know, Poirot,” Hastings halted his movements right in front of his friend, respectively at his side, so the desk wasn’t creating the imaginary border anymore. “I won’t tell on Bill as well as I won’t tell on you. You’re my friend, Poirot, and I’m not going to put you in any danger. I’d have never forgiven myself that, old thing.”</p><p>Poirot could only stare at him in awe, admiring Hastings’ loyalty and his bravery, his heart violently pounding with affection. For a second he was convinced he was about to burst with relief that Hastings decided to accept him the way he was. He had chosen his friend wisely…</p><p>“Even though it means to break the law?” he asked quietly, locking his eyes with the blue eyes, gentle, yet determined.</p><p>“Yes, Poirot,” was the decisive answer and Poirot mildly shivered at the intensity of the words, at the strength emanating from Hastings as he was towering over him as in a promise to keep him safe.</p><p>They kept looking at each other silently for another couple of seconds while Poirot was sure that the both of them were reminded how much they mean to each other by this moment. Their bond was more powerful and at most treasured by the both of them, outweighing any laws in the world, which Hastings had just announced. He cherished his friendship with Poirot more than what had been setting the course of his life till this very evening, and it consoled Poirot’s rattled nerves profoundly.</p><p>It even felt like their bond was about to get more vigorous with the revelation of most haunting secret Poirot had ever had. He came clean in Hastings’ eyes that were looking at him with the same fondness, coating him in the same admiration as always.</p><p>Seemingly nothing changed between them, but deep down, Poirot sensed that something was different anyway, something substantial, yet something neither of them was able to grasp yet.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jack Kirby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As a couple of days passed, Hastings realized he settled back into their old routine as if the revealing conversation regarding Poirot’s tendencies had not happened. He simply accepted it, and during the time spent together he did not even think about it, seeing his friend still as the one whom he trusted and whom se genuinely adored. Something lurking deep within his consciousness kept nagging him that he was raised to be disgusted about such a thing, however, Hastings ignored it. He did not let himself be bothered much by it as he adored Poirot, which became the answer for all of his inner questions like why had not he turned Poirot in considering it was his civil duty.</p><p>Yes, of course, it was his civil duty, but he was determined to learn to live with remembrance he had break the law rather than to loath himself for betraying his dearest companion. He would be so much ashamed that he wouldn’t able to look into his own eyes, and even without bearing this on his mind constantly, he was still enjoying Poirot’s presence as he used to while… while it seemed like nothing had changed.</p><p>With a slight, absent-minded smile upon his lips, Hastings was reading the morning newspaper, sitting comfortably on the sofa in Poirot’s apartment, while the mentioned detective was going through his mail. From time to time he looked up to the Englishman, who didn’t forget to enlighten him with some astonishing news from the world of sport, he nodded as if he was interested, sometimes even offered a comment, and maybe they would’ve continued like this till the noon if it weren’t for the unpleasantly startling ringing, coming from Mrs Lemon’s office.</p><p>“It’s Scotland Yard, Mr Poirot. Inspector Japp’s calling,” informed the two men Mrs Lemon in a span of seconds, and Hastings glanced in Poirot’s direction with interest sparkling within his eyes.</p><p>They could use another case. It was not like Hastings was bored, not at all, however, the weather was quite pleasant for the time being and Poirot could genuinely use it for taking one last case before the real winter would strike, providing the warmth-loving man with a great excuse not to leave his apartment for days.</p><p>“Thank you, Mrs Lemon, pull him through, please,” he asked the lady, looked after her as she returned to her office, and just a moment before Poirot picked up the handset, he sent a little smile towards Hastings, assuring him that also the detective was at least subtly keen on solving another mystery. “It’s Poirot speaking.”</p><p>The pair of blue eyes remained glued to the Belgian during the whole conversation he heard only half from, yet it only enhanced his curiosity as Poirot seemed intrigued by what Japp was telling him. At last, he hang up the phone, meeting Hastings’ agitated look.</p><p>“Is your car ready to take us to the countryside, Hastings?” he asked, corners of his lips twitching amusedly upwards at the sudden outburst of energy which Hasting jumped to his feet with, crumpling newspapers in his hands.</p><p>The Englishman knew he might’ve overreacted, behaving like a dog eager to go for a walk, but every single time Poirot suggested he was willing to travel by the Lagonda…</p><p>“I say, Poirot, that’s a sure thing,” he beamed at the detective. “Are we going somewhere, old man?”</p><p>“Indeed, we are, mon ami,” said Poirot evenly, but Hastings knew his friend too well to observe the slightest hints of anticipation Poirot displayed, “Inspector Japp informed me that there was murder at the manor of Sir Lyndon Arlington in Teddington. One of Sir’s maids was prompted to call Poirot, however, being so insecure about doing so, she instead contacted Scotland Yard and Chief Inspector Japp, who on her behalf reached myself and informed me that we have already been assigned two rooms in the best local guesthouse. Quite an extraordinary beginning of a case, don’t you think?”</p><p>Hastings shrugged as he kind of understood the lady’s hesitancy to call Poirot first as after all, police lacked Poirot’s legacy. He was more baffled by the fact his friend wasn’t fussing about Sir Arlington’s boldness, presuming that the famous detective was going to take the case.</p><p>“Well, maybe it’s better that Japp knows we are about to leave London,” offered Hastings, folding the crumpled newspaper and laying it on the sofa.</p><p>“Comment?”</p><p>“We won’t be surprised by his abrupt presence as it has happened numerous times in the past,” explained the Englishman, grimacing a bit, “I shall never forget the days we were forced to spend as roommates, sentencing me to some sleepless nights.”</p><p>Upon his rambling, there wasn’t a reply as Hastings supposed, only silence was echoing in the room, but it didn’t faze him, looking at the clock and then at Poirot.</p><p>“So we’re leaving today?” he asked, hoping for an affirmative answer as he really desired to savour the sunny weather of the present day.</p><p>“Yes, of course, Hasting,” nodded Poirot, though the Englishman had to wait for the words for another couple of seconds as Poirot seemed to be absorbed in his thoughts. “Right now if it is possible. We can return to pack our things should the case be worthy of my attention.”</p><p>“The act of murder is always worthy of attention, Poirot,” scolded him Hastings, frowning at him, but the detective didn’t even flinch.</p><p>“This is true, mon ami, but man always can suffer a cordial arrest, though somebody of his close surroundings could be convinced that somebody was responsible for the death, anyway,” asserted Poirot when passing by Hastings, reaching for his coat, and flashing Hastings with a slightly disapproving look.</p><p>Just that urged Hastings into motion. He also put his coat on, his hat shortly followed, and with informing Mrs Lemon about their journey to the countryside, the two men left the apartment.</p><p>XXXXX</p><p>It took an hour and a swift conversation with one of the locals to reach the residence of Sir Lyndon Arlington. It was detached from the town with only one road, meandering through the woods and leading towards the house which was surrounded by the mentioned forest and also by vast plains. For the shining sun and clear sky, the scenery looked quite peaceful, yet Hastings was able to imagine how haunting sight it could be during a foggy night.</p><p>Overall, the building was white with nothing extraordinary that would catch his eyes, however, such impression last only till they arrived closer as now his gaze lingered for a moment on three cars, parked next to the building. The police car, the ambulance, and the coroner, he reckoned and stopped the Lagonda alongside these vehicles.</p><p>“It was rather a pleasant ride, wasn’t it?” he turned to his companion, who usually didn’t share his enthusiasm, but today Poirot was quite chatty despite the cold wind, his mood obviously cheerful, which was still intact.</p><p>“It was bearable, Hastings, bearable,” he prolonged his answer as if he was reluctant to admit he enjoyed it, but the little twitch of his mouth gave Hastings an unnecessary hint that he liked it. Unnecessary, indeed, because his dear friend had already guessed his attitude, smiling at him fondly, and once Hastings hopped out of the car, he held the door open for Poirot, who flashed him with a grateful, amicable glint in his eyes.</p><p>“Thank you, Hastings,” said Poirot right before the both of them heard a noise, resembling when someone was quickly walking a gravel pathway.</p><p>“Monsieur Poirot, I presume,” a rather tall man with broad shoulders and short hair,  dressed in a suit came to them, extending his hand to Poirot. “I am Sir Arlington’s butler, Dunwoody, pleased to meet you.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, Monsieur Dunwoody,” accepted Poirot his hand before he introduced Hastings to the butler, and then they set off to the main entrance of the Manor.</p><p>“Sir Arlington is awaiting you in his office, but if you at first would like to observe the crime scene, please, if you would kindly follow me to the hall,” saying this, the butler kept the door open for the guests, leading them then to a spatial room where everything in terms of construction and furniture was made of light wood. Hastings also noticed that the surface was probably freshly polished, which only contributed to the overall feeling arising within Hastings that the room was remarkably clean, neat, the slight smell of wood very pleasant, moreover, he was almost surprised how cosy it was in here. Nothing cold or posh, it felt… it felt like home, he noticed, which was certainly the last thing he expected from a house of a wealthy man whom dared to estimate the case being worthy of Poirot’s time.</p><p>It was so nice here, Hastings forgot himself in the moment, starting to smile foolishly, yet then the butler’s remark eased him back to reality.</p><p>“Here is the body,” said the man gravely. “His name was Jack Kirby. The policemen, the doctor, and the coroner have done what they could, however, Sir Arlington insisted on calling you, Monsieur Poirot, therefore, the mentioned men are having a small brunch in the dining room in case you’d need them, but you are very free to investigate anything and anywhere you’d please. I am at your services as well, but I can assure you that Sir Arlington would be at most willing to answer all of your questions.”</p><p>With a slight bow, the butler stepped aside and let Poirot approached the victim, Hastings looking at the body, too, shaking his head regretfully.</p><p>“That’s awful… Murdering a man right under the stairs, in his sleeping gown…” he expressed his thoughts aloud before something caught his eye. “I’ve seen him somewhere.”</p><p>“This is possible, Sir, if you are a horse racing devotee,” intervened the butler, locking his eyes with Hasting’s curious look. Right away Hasting was frowning, and then he nodded.</p><p>“Of course, you’re right,” conceding, he turned to Poirot who seemed to be interested enough to avert his gaze from the body to glance at Hastings. “I believe that Sir Arlington is an owner of a rather remarkable set of horses, but it didn’t cross my mind till I saw the face of this poor man,” he nodded to the ground. “He was Arlington’s assistant in terms of horse racing, but he was rather well-known for buying animals for Arlington’s stable. I say, his most glorious purchase happened some years ago when he bought an unbelievably cheap two-year-old that after a couple of months turned out to be an utter crack and…”</p><p>“Thank you, Hastings,” interrupted him Poirot impatiently, yet softly. “I think I have the picture. So Monsieur Jack Kirby was Sir Arlington’s assistant, yes?”</p><p>“Exactly,” confirmed the butler. “It’s been about thirty years since the two of them met, and their partnership was quite a successful one.”</p><p>Hastings could imagine that as Mr Kirby was an expert on buying horses for not really huge sums of money. Logically, not all of them turned out to be champions, but the amount of rather good horses bought by Kirby was admirable. Hastings hadn’t seen the man at the racecourse for some time though, but it was certainly him as the face of the victim was pale, yet it definitely belonged to Kirby who was probably about fifty-years old with dishevelled black hair, sticky on the scalp where he was hit by a killing weapon.</p><p>The Englishman shivered as he thought of the way it could’ve happened, respectively as the unsuspecting man just climbed down the stairs, heading for the kitchen while the murderer was following him closely and preparing to execute the deathly blow.</p><p>“Who found him?” asked Poirot while carefully looking around the body.</p><p>“I did, Monsieur Poirot,” was the stoic answer. “Every morning I go through the house, checking whether everything is in order before I decide to have my breakfast. But today, I did not manage to go so far as I discovered Mr Kirby laying here in the same position as now. Immediately, I called the police, ambulance, and coroner, however, once I did so, Sir Arlington arrived, and seeing what happened, he… He insisted on me staying here, preventing anybody from moving the body, and then he ordered one of the maids to contact precisely you, Monsieur Poirot.”</p><p>During his speech, Poirot took out his notebook, making notes, but Hastings was only half-listening as his eyes wandered back to the victim and the wound on Kirby’s head. It seemed that…</p><p>“Thank you, Monsieur Dunwoody, that would be all for now. Would you mind pointing us in the direction of Sir Arlington’s office?” Due to Poirot’s question, Hastings blinked, looked at the detective, and then at the butler, waiting for the instructions.</p><p>“Up the stairs, to the right, the last door,” offered Dunwoody, upon which Poirot thanked him and together with Hastings, he made his move towards the stairs.</p><p>“Have you noticed the shape of the wound?” couldn’t Hastings refrain himself from speaking his mind for another second.</p><p>“Vous êtes très attentif, mon ami,” remarked Poirot and Hastings heard a hint of proud within his voice, which sprang up a smiled to his lips as he was immensely satisfied with his own little achievement. “I saw it, too, and despite all the blood, I believe it bears the contours of an incomplete horseboot.”</p><p>“Horseshoe,” corrected him Hastings automatically, and with a gentle smile, as they reached the first floor.</p><p>“It is almost significant, don’t you think?”</p><p>Realizing Poirot trailed behind him, Hastings returned to him; questioningly look at him, then at the wall his friend was gazing at.</p><p>“Perhaps,” shrugged Hastings, seeing what Poirot’s point was, but still… “But it also complicates the search for the murder weapon. This house seems to be packed with horseshoes. They are almost on all walls and I also saw a couple of different decorations made of them.”</p><p>“It certainly does,” agreed Poirot with him. “Well, let’s see Sir Arlington so I can decide whether we shall take the case.”</p><p>“You haven’t decided yet?” raised Hastings eyebrows at his friend who had made notes, which more or less assured him that such doubts were out of question. However, Poirot didn’t grant him with a straightforward reply, giving him just a quiet mysterious look as he passed Hastings by, walking towards the last room of the corridor, where Hastings followed him suite, slightly confused.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sir Lyndon Arlington</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Upon their entrance, Poirot immediately noticed the tidiness of the office and how symmetrically the pieces of furniture were placed, so even though the room wasn’t vast, it seemed to be rather commodious. He would definitely be pleased to work in here, moreover, from the very first sight, he liked Sir Lyndon Arlington as the man had his style, his appearance was immaculate, and the shape and condition of his moustache Poirot considered to be at most remarkable.</p><p>Nevertheless, he took the steps towards the man slowly when Arlington invited them in, yet his stare out of the window was blank and absent-minded. There was deep sorrow written in his features, the wrinkles probably making themselves more apparent than usual. Arlington was seated in the armchair behind his desk, but Poirot knew that despite him being about 60 years-old, this man was still at the peak of his strength, bursting with life, and his silvery hair served him only as a persistent reminder to enjoy very day to the fullest.</p><p>But now, the bearded man was just a shadow of his best, his otherwise eagle-like blue eyes fogged with mourning.</p><p>“My sincere apologies, gentlemen, for my absence,” spoke Arglinton up for the very second time, gaze still fixed upon the window, but then he moved in the armchair, so he faced the detective and his associate. “I wasn’t able to endured another single look at poor Jack. It… it was devastating to see him… laying there…” cracked the man’s voice a little, but he recomposed himself quickly. “Please, sit down, Monsieur Poirot, and… You are Captain Hastings, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, I am,” confirmed Hastings, obviously pleased to be recognized.</p><p>Once the proper greeting was done and Arlington left the office for a moment in order to ask the butler for two cups of tea for himself and Hastings, Poirot used the time for leaning towards Hastings, asking quietly, “Have you noticed his moustache?”</p><p>The Englishman blinked at him before he gave out a little chuckle.</p><p>“I say, I have expected your comment on it the second I saw the man’s face,” conceded Hastings with gloriously bright sparks of amusement in his eyes, however, having the compassionate nature he had, soon enough he remembered the situation this household was in, he let the humour slightly fade away, looking at his friend seriously, “But above all, I was severely struck by Sir Arlington’s grief. I guess, I haven’t seen a man of that age and status in such an emotional state for a long time.”</p><p>“Yes, Hasting, I agree. He must have been very fond of his assistant,“ concluded Poirot, and from the armchair he was sitting in, he took a closer look at the framed photograph on the desk.</p><p>“As nobody have mentioned any family and I can’t see any pictures of the wife…” Hastings started, but was cut off by the sound of opening door.</p><p>“If you wait just a moment, I’ll explain everything,” said Arlington, but he wasn’t upset by the fact Hastings was estimating his non-marital status as soon as he left the office. “But your assumption is right, Captain Hastings, I’m afraid. I’m not married, I’ve never been married, and my intention is to remain a bachelor till my very death.”</p><p>“I apologize, I didn’t mean to...”</p><p>“I do not mind people talking about me,” didn’t Arlington let Hastings to finish, sitting down again. “I am a successful businessman, and besides that, I run local newspaper and under my colours, more than twenty grand horses participate in prestigious races all around the kingdom. There is certainly a lot to prate about. No offense intended, Captain,” he send a quick, reassuring smile towards Hastings who didn’t even have the time to feel insulted or not because the tea arrived and his attention shifted to its delicious smell.</p><p>“So,” said Arlington once the cups were placed on the desk and the maid departed. “I am no detective, but…” was the man looking gloomily in his cup, again losing some of his otherwise very authoritative composure. “but I reckon it is clear that my assistant was murdered,” he added heavily.</p><p>“I believe so, Sir,” admitted Poirot while eyeing Arlington carefully as he kept finding the man in front of him quite interesting. So self-confident, well-aware of his importance, bold enough to assume Hercule Poirot was about to take the case and accept the offered room in the guesthouse, yet once they were talking about his assistant, he seemed almost docile. Unlike other Englishmen whom Poirot had encountered, Arlington wasn’t ashamed of displaying weakness, including vulnerability. “Could you, please, describe all the events from yesterday till today’s morning? I have learnt that you were away during the night…”</p><p>“Yes, I attended a banquet held by my friend Lord Dascombe. My chauffer drove me to London at about seven o’clock, and because I suspected it would last till the night, I decided to spend the rest of the early hour in a hotel, namely at the Claridge’s. However, I wanted to return home in time to speak to Jack about a horse I wished him to buy at today’s auction. Unfortunately…” he paused for a few seconds, looking to his guests, before continuing, “I arrived at thirty past six and found him lying there… The great Dunwood had already called the police and the coroner, even ambulance even though the both of us saw Jack was dead. And then I urged Miss St. Claire, the maid, to ring you, for I trust you to find the bastard who took Jack away from us more than some policemen. Moreover, I have the money to afford you.”</p><p>Poirot listened to Sir Lyndon Arlington’s story, nodding, and asking another question, “Could you tell me more about the partnership between you and Monsieur Kirby?”</p><p>“Of course,” gulped the man, visibly struggling with talking about his assistant, but trying to conceal it, he took a sip from the cup and pointed his suddenly very intense blue eyes at Poirot. “We met some thirty years ago when he was just a kid, working for a trainer I knew, and purely by coincidence, we found out we were able to have a good laugh together. Moreover, I noticed he was a little too bright to spent his best years tidying stalls, so I said him to call me once he decides to try something more challenging. At that time, I’ve established my own stable with a dozen of horses and a trainer, but I needed someone who would buy horses for me. Someone bright, with good eyes for the animals, and someone I could get along well, and immediately though that would be Jack. It didn’t took a whole year for him to show up at my door and… That’s how our journey had begun.”</p><p>Arlington drink up again, clearing his throat and easing his tie which was something for Poirot’s perfectionism, but he didn’t say a word, just frowned a bit.</p><p>“Jack wasn’t my only assistant, but he was completely in charge of my stable. Buying and selling horses, consulting their next starts with the trainer, and of course, consulting important matters with me. I trusted him to do his best and I believe, he did so, because we built our relationship on mutual trust, and to be honest, gentlemen, not a single time have I heard that he caused any troubles to me. Sometimes his hand wasn’t so lucky in picking yearlings, but when investing in horses, you must cherish even the smallest success,” he smiled nostalgically. “And that was another thing we’ve always agreed on, which also applies to women and family, as Captain have touched on the topic. The both of us were bachelors out of choice, and both because we’ve never been able to prioritize romance over business. My life centres around owning a set of smaller, yet prosperous companies, Jack’s life were horses. He loved them more than anything else in the world, and…” hesitated Arlington, showing signs of restlessness when his eyes darted from Poirot to Hastings and back to the table. “Well, I think that some ten years ago we both realized that unlike our friends, we were still bachelors, living in solitude, so I suggested him to move in with me. You could say we’ve simply left to each other, yet I would’ve never traded him for anyone, gentlemen, as our conversations not only about horses were always refreshing and good-humoured.”</p><p>“Excuse my potentially daring question, Sir Arlington, but Monsieur Kirby was the one of your assistants whom was living in this house?” asked Poirot, trying be as polite and unassuming as possible, which the man seemed to notice as he calmly nodded.</p><p>“Jack’s room is on the opposite end of the corridor. The middle room is not occupied by people as it’s the only place in the house I permit my dogs to reside, so if you hear any barking, it’d be them,” gave Arlington additional, but quite useful information. “They aren’t dangerous though, but in case you are afraid of dogs, avoid the back entrance. There are stairs connecting the room and the back hall, so the handler always knows where the dogs are.”</p><p>“Thank you very much for the warning,” appreciated the detective. “So it is you then, the butler, the handler, the maid… “</p><p>“There are two maids, Mrs Peterson and Miss St. Claire, Dunwoody, and my chauffeur. That’s it, no other residents.”</p><p>“Thank you,” nodded Poirot, marked the answer in his notebook. “Do you think that any of them had a motive to murder your assistant?”</p><p>“I don’t think so, Mr Poirot,” Arlington said with determination. “As I said, Jack was a great man, however… I cannot say for sure as he was buying horses for me for quite a long time, therefore, it is possible he had managed to enrage some of the other buyers by getting a horse right under someone’s nose. Although this could’ve happened, I’ve never experienced that anybody would hold a grudge against him when we were at the races. Everybody seemed fond of him for being such a gentleman.”</p><p>“He has always appeared to be a decent chap…” Hastings was quick to agree with the statement, arising curiosity in Arlington.</p><p>“I’ve heard you are interest in horse racing, Captain. Have you never met Jack personally?” sparkled the man’s blue eyes, intrigued.</p><p>“Unfortunately, I wasn’t lucky enough,” Hastings smiled regretfully. “I think he tended to visit all the sorts of courses, yet scarcely do I venture farther than to Ascot, Sandown, or Epsom.”</p><p>“Well, despite my situation, I am obliged to visit the meeting in Kempton on Boxing Day, and I’d be glad if you’d be interested in accompanying me. It would help me endure the whole day… But I’m bound go as I am about to hand over the cup after one of the smaller races,” suggested Arlington.</p><p>Although Poirot was turning the gained information in his head, he kept following the on-going conversation enough to look at Hasting just in the moment his handsome face lightened up with excitement.</p><p>“Certainly, the invitation applies also for Monsieur Poirot. And do not worry about the cold weather. I will book my lobby in advance,” he ensured them. “But back to the case…”</p><p>“Yes, please,” was Poirot barely holding his impatience as he, indeed, had another question on his mind, “You have mentioned that you were expecting to talk with Mr Kirby right upon your return home, but was it usual for Mr Kirby to get up so early? Or was it just for the purpose of the auction?” </p><p>“Just the auction,” confirmed Arlington a bit tiredly, which the detective of course noticed. Maybe it started to be a bit too much on the man, but still Arlington elaborated on the subject, “He would get up usually at eight o’clock, definitely not six.”</p><p>“That would be all, Sir Arlington, you have been a great help to us, I believe,” Poirot got up with a polite smile upon his lips, and as Arlington stood up and squeezed his hand, the interview was over.</p><p>“It’s the least I can do,” were Arlington’s eyes again like two deep wells of sadness. “Please, let me know about any progress. And I’m sure you’ve been told there are two rooms prepared for you at Johnny’s in the town.”</p><p>“We were, thank you,” smiled Hastings at the man, shook his hand, and together with Poirot, he left the office. “He seems to be a fine guy,” he remarked as they returned to the staircase.</p><p>“Yes, but he might be too much fond of his own voice…” mumbled Poirot under the breath, which spread a new smile upon Hastings’ face.</p><p>“I suppose that people like him just like talking. Like you.”</p><p>“Comment? What do you mean by <em>like you</em>?” gazed Poirot questioningly at Hastings who hesitated, apparently caught off guard by his own careless remark. The detective knew what his friend meant, but he genuinely enjoyed seeing his ears going red and eyes unable to look at him straight. It made Hastings at most adorable, which always sent Poirot’s heart aflutter.</p><p>“You know… Like Sir Arlington and you, Hercule Poirot, who are very successful. You like talking about your experience in order to teach us something, to help us navigate throughout the world…” Hasting was fabricating explanation on the spot, stuttering a bit.</p><p>“I see, Hastings, you always think the best of people, but I insist on the impression that Sir Arlington is too proud of his life to stop talking about it,” put Poirot a stop to Hastings’ suffering, earning an eager nod in reaction, but he knew that the shade of pink was going to paint Hastings’ cheeks for a while. “What is the time, Hastings? Do you know?”</p><p>“It’s almost ten o’clock,” said Hastings with his gaze pointed towards a massive pendulum clock.</p><p>“Bien. We shall inspect the victim’s room, and then the questioning of the butler will be appropriate,” foreshadowed Poirot the plan, according to which he would like to adhere to, however, he knew very well the postponing of any further investigation was going to be inevitable. “Right before noon, I suggest we return to London with a stop for lunch, yes?”</p><p>“Jolly good, Poirot, that’s what I’ve been thinking,” beamed Hastings at him as Poirot didn’t forget his almost constantly empty stomach.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Blythe Dunwoody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Heading into the victim’s room, they saw a properly made bed, and it wasn’t even surprising that everything had its place here. Everything was clean, the smell was fresh thanks to the ajar window.</p><p>“Something tells me we aren’t going to find anything useful,” stated Hastings, moving towards the window to look out, “I, indeed, can’t recall any kind of scandals regarding him, and around horse racing, there are various types of rumours, trust me.”</p><p>“My dear Hasting, I do trust you. You’re the horse expert here, but going through the victim’s correspondence shall not hurt,” Poirot pointed out, yet conceded, “But I also do not expect any remarkable piece of information hidden in this room. From what we’ve heard, I reckon, the victim was the type of man who does not tend to make enemies, or who does not acknowledge having them, thinking nobody would seriously hurt him for what he’s doing,” kept Poirot explaining while looking for some letters in the drawers of Kirby’s writing desk.</p><p>Meanwhile, Hastings opted for exploring the wardrobe and looking under the bed, but he was adamant he would not find anything, in which he succeeded.</p><p>“There’s literally nothing suspicious about this room,” he sighed, scratching his scalp and letting his eyes roam over the space, till his gaze stopped at Poirot, reading silently one of the letters.</p><p>Knowing better than to disturb him, he just sat next to him, waiting patiently, but Poirot noticed him right away.</p><p>“These are mostly letters from his mother about not being married,” he spoke up, informing Hastings about the big <em>nothing </em>he had discovered.</p><p>The Belgian shove the letters back where he found them and look up at Hastings, whom he observed for a second as it occurred to him that his friend was sitting rather close to him, but as the hot wave struck him, he was already at his feet, pacing to the window to close it. However, a prior that, he decided to look down and frowned.</p><p>“Do you see something?” he heard a slightly bored voice of his companion, contemplating the best option to approach this matter.</p><p>“Maybe, Hasting, maybe. Would you be so kind and find Monsieur Dunwoody? We shall meet at the back entrance,” he turned briefly back to Hastings.</p><p>“Of course,” was the Englishman a bit puzzled, but he did as he was asked, leaving Poirot alone, but the detective shortly followed him out of the room, heading downstairs and deeper in the house where he discovered a door, leading into a short corridor. On its end, another door was located.</p><p>“Yes, Captain, this is the back entrance,” confirmed the voice of the butler, approaching Poirot whom only just spotted a narrow stairs that probably ended in the dog-room as Monsieur Arlington had mentioned.</p><p>As the butler and Hastings caught up with him, Poirot was opening the door, stepping outside and making his way towards the place he saw from the window. There was a garden where only grass grew, yet the one particular place lacked any growth as it was stomped, which was obvious even now. The mud was covered in imprints of dog-paws, some human footprints, of course, but even from above, a numerous imprints of horseshoes were visible.</p><p>“Monsieur Dunwoody, what do you make of these?” he gestured towards the butler to join him in the yard, pointing to the ground. “Sir Arlington keeps some horses here?”</p><p>“No, he does not, but the handler yesterday arrived on horseback as his car broke down. This is the reason for his absence here today. He took a day off to have the vehicle fixed,” was the butler’s unfazed answer. “But he will be back in the late afternoon in case you’d like to have a word with him.”</p><p>“That would be at most appropriate, thank you,” said Poirot, once again looking down on the ground. “And what about you, Monsieur Dunwoody? Are you available for answering a few questions in this very moment?”</p><p>“I am at your services,” the man bowed slightly, “However, I would prefer to undergo the interview inside, if it is acceptable.”</p><p>“Of course,” Poirot agreed as the detective himself noticed the chilly wind biting upon his skin, therefore, he welcomed the idea gladly and went back to the house, followed by Hastings and the butler. The latter then lead them to the common room that was as comfortable and cosy as the rest of the interior, but this time, the quite successful attempt to organize the carpet, the curtains, and some accessories into a matching shade of light green had certainly caught eyes not only of the current guests.</p><p>“Would you be so kind and describe us the events of the late evening and today’s morning, please?” asked Poirot the butler once they were seated, Hastings ostentatively ogling the room as the walls were crowded with painting of horses.</p><p>“It has been quite an ordinary day, Sir,” was Dunwoody frank with his opinion. “I’ve completed all of my daily tasks, walked Sir Arlington to the car at seven o’clock, and I made sure that Mr Kirby did not need my services anymore, therefore, I was free to have my dinner, take care of my wardrobe, and about eleven o’clock I was already fast asleep. Today, I rose as usually at six o’clock, getting myself presentable enough to greet Sir as soon as he shall return, but once I began descending the staircase, I saw Mr Kirby on the ground. I knew it was him because of the gown which he adored,” added Dunwoody. “Then I called the police, the ambulance, and the coroner, upon which Sir Arlington entered the house.”</p><p>“What was the time you saw Mr Kirby for the last time? Alive, I mean,” intervened into the conversation Hasting, his eyes fixed curiously on the butler’s face.</p><p>“It could not have been later than at quarter past seven,” answered the man calmly, yet his composed behaviour was disturbed by the flash of anticipation within his features, his voice suddenly vibrating with live emotions, “But to be honest, M. Poirot, I heard him early in the morning leaving him room. It is located exactly above my own, you understand. I heard the door being open, and then the steps headed towards the staircase. It was extraordinary for him to rise so early, even though he was about to leave for an auction, but as I was dressing up, I hastily assumed he was simply anticipating Sir’s arrival. They has been very close, so it did not occurr strange to me, but…”</p><p>“Have you heard something else?” Poirot encouraged him, sensing the butler’s point of view could give them precious information.</p><p>“I believe so,” swallowed Dunwoody, averting his gaze to the floor. “I heard a loud thump as if something rather heavy had fallen to the ground, but from my room, it only seemed that one of the maids had dropped a bag of flour maybe. It did not faze me, however, if it had fazed me… I might have discovered Mr Kirby earlier.”</p><p>Poirot contemplated the answer for a few seconds before he quietly asked, “When did you hear it?”</p><p>The butler frowned mildly, “Twenty past six.” Stating the time eventually, he looked up to Poirot and Hastings. “You know, gentlemen, I simply cannot imagine who would have desired Mr Kirby’s death. The both of them, Sir Arlington and Mr Kirby, have always been very kind to all of the servants in the house. Of course, they had their moments, but I guarantee neither the maids, neither the chauffer will admit that as they at most respect Sir and his long time guest, Mr Kirby.”</p><p>Smiling understandingly, being touched, Hastings inquired, “And how it was possible the maids hadn’t heard anything, and it was you who found the body?”</p><p>“At that time, I believe, Miss St Claire was already making Sir’s bed, preparing it for his arrival in case was he in need of a rest after the banquet, and the room is the farthest from the staircase. The chance she heard anything was quite slim. In terms of Mrs Peterson, I am afraid that her hearing is not what it used to be. Sir Arlington treasures her cooking genius, but it is necessary to utter words right in her proximity, otherwise she would not notice anything you say.”</p><p>“Sir Arlington expressed a thought that neither him, neither Mr Kirby were aware of having enemies. Do you share this view?” added Poirot another question, but he was almost sure that everything of use had been already said.</p><p>“I most certainly do,” nodded the butler, his voice regaining its past determination. “However, unlike Sir Arlington, I have never accompanied Mr Kirby to racecourses or auction rings, therefore, it is possible there were people despising him, yet they were never mentioned in the house.”</p><p>“Thank you, Monsieur Dunwoody, that would be all,” Poirot gave the man a little smile, “Now we would like to have a word with the coroner, and then we would be off and we shall return in the afternoon. Would you be so kind and fix that the rest of the personnel is gathered here at four o’clock?”</p><p>“Very well, Mr Poirot,” Dunwoody stood up, bowed again, and with the last look at Poirot and Hastings, and with an assurance that he was going to send the coroner in, he left.</p><p>“Hastings, will you be able to drive us to Sir Arlington’s stable tomorrow? Do you know where it is?” turned Poirot to his friend, who pondered the question for a while.</p><p>“I think so,” confirming, Hasting nodded, “It is going to take about half an hour as I believe that the stable is located quite close to the racecourse in Ascot. But I can gather the exact address from the butler, if you wish,” Hastings suggested willingly.</p><p>“That would be splendid, Hastings,” twitched the corners of Poirot’s mouth upwards. “The weather is not the worst, but Poirot does not need to spent excessive periods of time facing its peculiarities from your car.”</p><p>At that, Hastings only smiled amusedly at the man, getting up and heading away in order to find the butler while Poirot was soon enough greeted by the coroner whom in a curt, yet quite satisfying manner provided Poirot with as many details on the murder as it was possible at the moment.</p><p>Once the coroner left Poirot alone, Hasting returned.</p><p>“What have you learnt?” he couldn’t hold his curiosity, blue eyes sparkling with interest which he approach Poirot with.</p><p>“Mr Kirby died from a hard blow to his skull and the time of death was set at about half past six. That is it for now,” shared Poirot with Hastings who seemed disappointed, but Poirot didn’t pay much attention to it. “Shall we drive back to London?”</p><p>“Of course,” with his spirits revived at the prospect of driving and having his lunch soon, Hastings beamed at Poirot. “Do you have any idea who did it?”</p><p>“Do not be so eager, mon ami, the questionings are not over yet, and moreover, it is always suspicious once a victim tends to be described as a harmless and kind human being. Such people, Hastings, do not usually end up being murdered in such a manner,” explained Poirot while they were leaving the house behind their backs, approaching the Lagonda.</p><p>“You mean… by a horseshoe?” Hastings was confused.</p><p>“Yes, Hastings, by a horseshoe,” Poirot said in a tone that Hastings couldn’t decipher whether he was mocking him or genuinely answering. “By a horseshoe, but most importantly with a powerful blow as a person full of anger and spite would do. The horseshoe is a rather interesting weapon, you see. It might bear some significance to the case, but it does not have to.”</p><p>“The police will be quite busy with looking for the murder weapon, anyway,” Hastings remarked once they got to the car, noticing that Poirot nodded in confirmation.</p><p>“Indeed, I can imagine that,” he said, but already being almost completely absorbed by his own thoughts including the one that Arlington’s house was full of horseshoes, and trying to find the particular one, considering the murdered did not bring it along in and or out, was going to be some tedious work.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Kenneth Price</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After having their lunch, packing, and accepting the rooms at Johnny’s in Teddington, the detective and his associate turned up at the Arlington’s residence again. As Dunwoody promised, the rest of the personnel was waiting for them, all restless, therefore, Poirot started right away with the questioning, asking the maids to join him in the green room together. Hastings didn’t comment on it as he soon found out Poirot decided so because of the way Miss St. Claire treated Mrs Peterson.</p><p>Sitting quite close to her, she was very willing to repeat the questions right into Mrs Peterson’s ear, so they gathered the answers from the both women at once. Besides the things already said, such as that Miss St. Claire was in Sir’s room and didn’t hear anything in the time of the murder, and Ms Peterson, of course, didn’t hear anything either. From their point of view, Jack Kirby was a very good man, a proper gentlemen who was from time to a bit rough around the edges, but he had never hurt anybody, and in case of being rude, he would apologize in a span of an hour.</p><p>“I know Sir Arlington from when he was in his twenties, and he is still as kind to me as back then, but only when Mr Kirby moved in, I think he was happy for the very first time,” smiled Mrs Peterson at Poirot, her eyes going very soft with affection. “The man’s heart is made of gold, but he’s no material for marriage. He works too much and Mr Kirby was somebody who kept Sir company and worked with him…”</p><p>“I am not sure whether I can be a judge of such matters,” added Miss St. Claire, her insecure eyes darting between Poirot and Hastings, but once the Englishman smiled at her, she smiled back, mustering enough courage to continue, “But I think they were really close friends and I cannot see how Sir Arlington will handle… life without him. He adores his horses, but…”</p><p>“He is not an expert on racing, you mean?” offered Hastings as the maid hesitated, but she shook her head in dismissal.</p><p>“He knows racing enough to be capable of managing the stable, however, Philip… the trainer,” Miss St. Claire corrected herself in a way that stung Hastings, though he didn’t let himself be distracted by it, focusing on the young woman’s words, “He is of a different generation and he insists of selecting the horses. You know, keeping only the perspective ones and getting rid of the worse animals, but Sir Arlington will not hear of it as he loves all his horses equally. I’m not sure if their partnership will last without Mr Kirby whom was able to somehow console the both of them…”</p><p>“And this… Philip…?”</p><p>“Henderson.”</p><p>“And is Mr Henderson a decent trainer?” enjoyed Hastings the topic as he, of course, knew the name of the trainer, but wanted to be sure they were talking about the same man. His opinion on the man was indifferent as he apparently knew his job, yet sometime it occurred like the worse horses were racing too often for his own liking.</p><p>“Oh, yes,” lightened Miss St. Claire’s up face remarkably. “He is very ambitious and already successful. I think he is grateful to Sir Arlington for giving him such an opportunity to work for him, but right now… I think he wants something more.”</p><p>“And you disapprove?” asked Hastings before he had thought it through.</p><p>“I don’t know… We are just friends and… I really don’t know if I’m allowed to talk about him like that,” turned her cheeks pink, yet her gaze was unyieldingly fixed upon Hastings, which inly confused the Englishman. Fortunately, Poirot intervened, thanking the maids for their time, and urging Hastings to send in the chauffer.</p><p>“Kenneth Price,” the man came in, extending his hand towards Poirot, and sat on the sofa opposite to the detective.</p><p>Hastings couldn’t shake off the feelings there was something amiss about that middle aged man with a crumpled hat and dishevelled beard. How could such a man be employed as a chauffeur, it was beyond his senses. Eyeing the man with suspicion, he remained standing as a precaution in case Price would… would do something Hastings wouldn’t like.</p><p>“Can’t say much about Kirby, Mr Poirot,” drawled Price, making himself comfortable, leaning against the cushions with a lazy smile. “Didn’t like the fella, so I kept my distance. I’m here to drive Sir Arlington wherever he wants to, that’s it.”</p><p>“So it agrees that yesterday you drove him to London at about seven o’clock, yes? And then you stayed in the city?” breached Poirot the subject, but it was obvious he was just making ground for going for more intriguing questions.</p><p>“That’s right,” the chauffeur nodded. “I went to a bar, had two beers, and then I crashed in a hotel room Sir booked for me. As always, it was too fancy for me liking, but you know, I didn’t complain.”</p><p>“And then you drove Sir Arlington back here?” interrupted him Hastings, his voice as sharp as the look in his eyes. “Weren’t you still under the influence?”</p><p>“Nah, I weren’t. Two beers at nine o’clock will not ruin a man,” winked Price at him cheekily, which sent Hastings’s blood boiling. “In case you’re one…” shone the teeth in Price’s vicious smile.</p><p>“Calm down, mon ami,” were the words that prevented Hastings from doing anything stupid. He wasn’t about to punch Price as the man was positively driving at it, but he intended to give him a lecture on his behaviour. However, the gentle tone turned his attention to Poirot, looking at him warningly, yet with understanding gleaming within his eyes.</p><p>“So, you returned to the house, and when you found out Mr Kirby was murdered, what have you done?” Poirot averted his gaze from Hastings, looking again at the still grinning chauffer.</p><p>“I couldn’t care less,” Price snorted. “He was an ass-kissing snake. Once born as a proper working-class bloke, you’re oughta stay truthful to your working-class roots. But that Kirby,” he grimaced with disgust. “turned his back on his fellas, on his own blood, and jumped at the first opportunity to climb up into the world of snobs. And he was even proud about that, that bastard! Betraying his own people, sweating blood in the stables to raise enough to survive…”</p><p>Poirot didn’t even flinch at the potential insult, which again, had a consoling effect on Hastings who leaned against the wall, yet still very alert, very unsettled by the presence of such a being.</p><p>“But you’re working for Sir Arlington, too, so what is the problem?” he asked instead, sounding almost innocent.</p><p>“Yeah, I am, but I’m not Arlington’s lapdog as Kirby was. I’m a proper employee, paying for the food and the room I’m getting in here. I’m still a working man, you see, and if I’m not driving Sir somewhere, I’m providing the kitchen with meat and vegetables and stuff, or occasionally I’m walking the dogs…” Price explained in a more tolerable manner, and he also furrowed his brows as if he was trying to remember something. “You were asking what I did as we arrived here, weren’t you?”</p><p>“That is correct, Monsieur Price.”</p><p>“Yeah, I was told to feed and walk the dogs, but I didn’t have to. They were sleeping happily in the upper room, the bowls having traces of some fresh meat in them, and as I called them out, they seemed reluctant. I left them be and assumed somebody else took care of them, but, Mr Poirot, I can’t see who. The dog handler had a day off,” seemed the man to be actually puzzled by the situation. “And I asked him about it just a minute ago and he thought me a loony.”</p><p>“Could not have one of the maids possibly fed them?” cocked Hastings his head to the side.</p><p>“Don’t take me for a loony, too, Sir,” Price flashed Hastings with a fierce gaze. “I know it could’ve been like that, but can’t imagine what they must do to them to make them so tired.”</p><p>Hastings wasn’t willing to admit his defeat, so grimly looking on the ground, he suddenly felt rather relieved once the chauffer was dismissed, and Poirot sent him to bring the handler in.</p><p>“And please, Hastings, inform the two ladies that we might need them again, in twenty minutes I think.”</p><p>The Englishman did as he was asked to, cooling off a bit as he walked, and once he got back, he absent-mindedly reciprocated the mild smile of gratitude Poirot gave him.</p><p>Hastings was than greeted by Nicolas Hobbs, the dog handler, and seated himself next to Poirot without further hesitation. The man was well-mannered, his clothes, the beige coat and dark green trousers, apparently old and worn, but clean, his face shaved and eyes bright with keen interest. His hair was of a sand colour and rather longer, going almost below his ears, but not greasy or messy in any way. It suited him as well as the kind of eager manner of speaking, which a bit surprised Hastings because the man wasn’t much older than himself. Maybe forty three, forty four?</p><p>“Yes, I usually arrive at six, walk the dogs, feed them, then I go home and work there, and in the afternoon I’m again here, walking the dogs, taking care of them in general, and feeding them. Sometimes I handle something around the house,” was the man’s reply to the first Poirot’s question Hastings caught.</p><p>“But not today?” suggested Poirot.</p><p>“No, not today,” blurted Hobbs out, shaking visibly. “I had a day off and Price was set to take care of the dogs. I had to get my car repaired in London, but as I got called by Dunwoody, I decided to postpone the thing.”</p><p>“So you have no idea who could have walked the dogs instead of Monsieur Price?” asked Hastings.</p><p>“Well, the maids, but I doubt that,” Hobbs shrugged, his eyes restlessly darting between Poirot and Hastings. “The dogs are pretty strong and hard to keep in order, and there’s three of them… Elliott, Willie, and Gordon.”</p><p>“I understand,” Poirot nodded, “but how have you got here if not by your car?”</p><p>“My wife asked her friend to lend me a car for once,” admitted Hobbs with a little, somehow hopeful smile. “But it’s only for once. Tomorrow morning, I’ll take my horse.”</p><p>“Bien,” Poirot nodded, looking down at his neatly folded hands, before he again glanced open, “Monsieur Hobbs, do the maids know you well?”</p><p>In this instant, Hobbs shook his head feverishly.</p><p>“Not at all, Mr Poirot. I’m not used to go to the house much… Maybe once or twice one of the ladies offered me cup of tea as it was quite chilly outside, but I prefer beer or… or a cup of coffee that I tend to enjoy every Wednesday afternoon with Price. He and Mr Kirby were the only people whom I talk from now and then,” revealed Hobbs hastily, his eyes restless, face flushed.</p><p>Hastings casted a sidelong glance in the detective’s direction, trying to figure out what Poirot was making out of Hobbs’ words, however, Poirot didn’t tear his gaze from the handler.</p><p>“So Monsieur Price and Monsieur Kirby… Do you share Monsieur Price’s opinion on Monsieur Kirby?” was the next, slowly voiced question.</p><p>“I’m not sure I follow,” frowned Hobbs. “Price didn’t like him, of course, but… we weren’t much talking about Kirby.”</p><p>“I understand, but if I asked just you, what is your opinion on Monsieur Kirby?”</p><p>“He was alright. I’ve heard he was rather fierce when it came to business, but… You know, he hired me, so I was grateful to him,” Hobbs shrugged and it seemed to Hastings that this guy didn’t have anything in common with the murder.</p><p>There must be another explanation for the dogs being so tired, he mused, smiling kindly at Hobbs whom returned nervously the gesture just a second before Poirot thanked him for his help. Now it was the time for Miss St. Claire to make her reappearance, which Hastings welcomed with mild eagerness as he was sure the girl was innocent, yet she might’ve been about to throw some light on the mystery.</p><p>“Dear Captain told me, you’d like to see me again,” Miss St. Claire said as she entered, her fine features bearing hints of confusion.</p><p>“This is true, Madame St. Claire, we have learnt that the dog-handler, Monsieur Hobbs, had a day off today. Were you aware of that?” Poirot went exactly to the point, yet his voice sounded softly, encouragingly, and Hastings found himself smiling again, this time at Poirot’s tenderness he could display to make other people comfortable. It reminded him why he liked the man so much, and with warmth spreading through his chest, he turned his attention to Miss St. Clare.</p><p>At first, she looked as if she didn’t know what Poirot was talking about, but then the gleam of comprehension reached her greenish eyes.</p><p>“Dear Lord!” she whispered in awe, her palms springing up to her face in an attempt to hide her shame, painting her cheeks red. “I’ve completely forgotten, but… now you’ve mentioned it… I saw…”</p><p>“Calm down, Madame, Ça ira. It will be alright, just tell us what you saw,” continued Poirot with his soothing way of communication.</p><p>“You must understand I don’t know Mr Hobbs well, I’ve seen him only a few times even though he works here for two years, but he only takes the dogs out and feeds them. That’s all…” was Miss St. Claire explaining, still in shock, yet she quite quickly got a hold of herself again, speaking in a more composed manner, “It was about six in the morning when I was going upstairs to prepare Sir’s bedroom for his arrival in case he would be tired and need a nap. And once I was at the stairs, I heard a noise, but I knew that nobody should’ve been there at that time, so I went to look what was up, and I saw a man in a beige coat, doing something with the horseshoes on the wall… I greeted him, he grumbled something in response, and then off I was again, right to the bedroom. I couldn’t have heard anything from there, so I returned only to witness Blythe… Dunwoody, I mean, bending over the body of Mr Kirby,” Miss St. Claire said in what seemed like one breath, therefore, she was rather exhausted after that.</p><p>“Dunwoody? The butler was bending over the victim?” asked Hastings, but was met only with a sharp nod.</p><p>“To check the pulse, I’m afraid, Hastings,” Poirot intervened to curb Hastings’ enthusiasm. “It will not be that easy, mon ami. However, I will take it in consideration,” he added once Hastings flashed him with slightly disappointed look.</p><p>Hastings then accompanied Poirot and Miss St. Claire to the place where she saw the man she assumed to be Mr Hobbs. It was right under the stairs and it took a single glance at it to notice something was amiss.</p><p>“One of the horseshoes is missing,” announced Miss St. Claire, again out of breath. “I’m sure because I keep dusting the place day by day… But who would’ve taken such a thing?”</p><p>Poirot didn’t answer. The sparkles of interest were dancing within his brown eyes as he was ogling the wall that must’ve tickled his sense of symmetry which was hampered due to the missing horseshoe. He was frowning, probably angry at the criminal from taking a human life away, but Hastings sensed how excited to find the murdered Poirot actually was. And for such emotions being contagious, Hastings shivered, pondering whether the horseshoe, which used to hang on the wall for years, had, indeed, served as a weapon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. At Johnny’s Part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hastings, what do you make of this case?” was the first question Poirot raised as they were seated at Johnny’s, waiting for their dinner to arrive. The interior was rather pleasant to the discerning Poirot’s eyes, yet the single stove didn’t stand a chance to heat the room enough for Poirot’s liking. After they’d finish their meals, he hoped to relocate to the common room where he noticed a fireplace with two armchairs standing in front of it. Such a place would be much appropriate for him and his cold hands, he thought while expecting Hastings’ answer to come.</p><p>“It is a rather bizarre case, I say,” leaned Hastings against the chair, eyes roaming around the room for a while. “There must a huge subplot in it, something I cannot see yet, but I believe it would be a complicated and grim thing.”</p><p>Poirot only smiled, being a bit condescending, yet in the end, he decided to listen to everything Hastings had to say.</p><p>“You think there is somebody else involved but the mysterious man in a beige coat, yes?”</p><p>“Why, Poirot, it is a certainty. How could he get into the house without somebody letting him it? And what about the dogs? They could’ve been walked and fed by the mysterious man, but I doubt they’d go just with anybody. They must have known the chap,” declared Hastings with determination as usually, however, Poirot internally admitted his thoughts weren’t that far-fetched.</p><p>“Maybe fed, yes, but not walked, mon ami,” suggested the detective, feeling that well-known tingle of amusement once Hastings’ expression plunged in confusion, the wheels reeling.</p><p>“You mean… Well, yes, I… I think they might’ve been intoxicated,” nodded Hastings after a while.</p><p>“Exactement,” Poirot agreed, eyeing carefully the waiter as he was approaching them with plates of meals. “Not killed, because it would arise more suspicion than just exhaustion. Probably it was in the food. Tomorrow we shall call Japp whether he could spare somebody able to take samples from the animals. Maybe they’ll discover something significant.”</p><p>As the meals arrived, Poirot took the cutlery, but before he started eating, he glance at Hastings, adding, “And in terms of opening the door, Hastings, I have noticed the lock was a very old and rusty one. It would not be an obstacle for anybody of moderate cunning abilities.”</p><p>While eating, the both of them were quite silent as Hastings was still contemplating what Poirot said, and the detective was extensively trying not to be too surprised by the deliciousness of the meal which cost him twice less that it would’ve in London. Of course, it wasn’t as neatly arranged as he would’ve preferred, the taste though… It was just when they almost finished their meals when a middle aged couple took the table right behind Hastings.</p><p>And Poirot and Hastings wouldn’t have noticed had not been for the loudness of their conversation. They simply weren’t able neither not the listen, nor to have a discussion on their own.</p><p>“Max, have you heard already?” asked the lady in an excited voice.</p><p>“I have, Jasmine,” her husband answered in a similar way, “And despite it’s a horrible thing to murder a man, he had seen it coming.”</p><p>“What do you mean by that, dear?” was another question, followed by another, “Oh, you mean… because of… that?!”</p><p>“Certainly, my love.” Max said, voice vibrating with pride. “Long time ago I’ve said to you that there’s something rotten about that partnership of theirs. Something rotten, indeed.”</p><p>“But how can you be so sure, Max? I have been encountering Miss St. Claire and also Kenneth quite often and they had never said anything about them being closer than they should be,” Jasmine doubted his statement, though she wasn’t about to have an argument, no, she was just enjoying the topic too much to let it slip with her quick consent.</p><p>“Maybe to you, Jasmine, but Kenneth had mentioned something to me… Not that he saw anything, because if he did so, he would’ve turned them in immediately, but he said he wouldn’t be surprised if the both of them were inverts,” explained Max. “In other words, Kenneth was sure the both of them were quite queer, and if there was a motive for Kirby’s murder, I’m sure it could’ve been a fact that he had shown his interests in front of anybody who’s not an invert himself.”</p><p>“And this is very interesting, honey,” Jasmine chirped, but it was the last thing Poirot heard because the couple was busied with choosing their meals in the next second, which took off the great burden of his own shoulders. He was quite resilient to such talks, however, listening to it together with Hastings was a pure torment. He simply hoped Hastings was brooding over something else, but once Poirot looked quietly at him, his heart sank at how pale his friend was.</p><p>“Mon ami, what would you say to exchanging the table and wooden chairs for a pair of comfortable armchair next to the fireplace?” Poirot stood up and spoke up softly, smiling slightly even as Hastings’ eyes met his, despair burning within them so brightly it caught Poirot off guard.</p><p>“Yes, that’s splendid idea,” Hastings weakly reciprocated the smile. He also rose to his feet, following his friend to the other room on the ground floor. Once the both of them sat down, Poirot extended his hands towards the fire, letting its heat warm up his fingers. The noise from the dining room became just a distant one while now, he was revelling mostly in the pleasant cracking of the burning logs.</p><p>Usually, he would, indeed, not mind the silence between them, but he cherished the companionable one, the comforting one, however, the current atmosphere was causing anxiety to his body, which Poirot, of course, didn’t appreciate.</p><p>“Talk to me, Hastings, please,” were the words voiced before Poirot thought them through, but as he found in a matter of seconds, Hastings probably didn’t hear him at all. He was blankly staring into the fire, looking utterly lost and unhappy. Poirot pondered whether the reason for his friend’s conditions was to be found only in the overheard conversation, or whether it was triggered by something else, however, he couldn’t figure it out unless he had an opportunity to talk with Hastings.</p><p>Letting his eyes roam over Hastings, he stopped at his knee which was the part of his body closest to Poirot, so the detective repeated the inquiry while placing his palm atop of Hastings’ knee, trying to catch his attention. It took a while for the Englishman to notice Poirot was speaking to him, but once he focused on the Belgian, his face regained at least a tiny bit of its usual colour.</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it, Poirot, don’t know even how…” Hastings finally managed to say, and Poirot nodded understandingly, withdrawing his hand, yet his eyes didn’t leave Hastings for a single moment.</p><p>“It is alright, mon ami, but please, talk about something else. Anything else, to be exact,” encouraged him the detective even though he knew what could happen. Hasting could start talking about cars, cricket, or photographs, but Poirot was adamant to withstood it if it was able to lighten up the mood after it had been so rudely ruined by the gossiping couple.</p><p>Eyeing him with puzzled expression, it took another minute for Hastings to really divulge into a different topic, yet he didn’t enlightened him in knowledge about the mentioned aspects of life as his mind was wandering around his initial memories regarding his passion for horse racing. It was almost appropriate, Poirot thought, as he was carefully listening to his friend because he assumed that any information in terms of the sport might be somehow useful during the case.</p><p>They again plunged into silence when Hastings finished the story, yet this time there was a more comfortable atmosphere as if the previous barrier between them vanished. However, after a while, Hastings spoke up in a slightly different voice, low, yet very curious.</p><p>“Still… Well, I didn’t intend to touch on the topic… and definitely not today, still I’m not able to get one question off my mind, Poirot,” he turned to his friend who raised his eyebrows, prepared to comment on it, but Hastings was too quick to elaborate, “I cannot wrap my mind around the thing that… Since I have no idea that you were… interested in man,” Hastings was cautiously scanning their surroundings, but as he concluded nobody was listening on them, he continued again, “I genuinely have never seen another man like you. Never seen, never heard of being ever introduced to me. But after you revealed to me that you were… well, I… it seems that…” struggled the man with words as well as with insecurity, yet Poirot smiled.</p><p>He smiled because it was quite clear that Hastings struggled with the formulation of his thoughts and not because he was so ashamed of thinking or talking about it, but due to the fact he didn’t know what words he should use. He was just being his confused Hastings.</p><p>“Calme-toi, mon ami,” Poirot kept sending a warm smile towards his dearest friend, watching him as the tension faded away from his features, leaving only some curiosity there. “I think I know what is troubling you. You do not understand why it seems that everywhere we go, people are talking about people like me. You haven’t noticed it earlier because you weren’t thinking about such things, were you?”</p><p>Hastings shook his head.</p><p>“It… It simply didn’t cross my mind…”</p><p>“Then it is rather natural that now, after you’ve noticed, you are prone to see it everywhere. It is the same with the horses as you were talking about them. For me, horses are all alike because I do not know them. They are beautiful, elegant, yet Poirot sees only a difference between a white horse and a brown one. But you, my dear Hastings, you know horses, you know how they behave, their abilities, their names, their trainers. You literally see them, so now, you are also able to see people like me, or likewise, when you hear people talking about them, you understand even things that were not explicitly said,” Poirot explained his theory while Hasting dropped his gaze back to the fire, thinking.</p><p>Meanwhile, Poirot warmed up his palms at the flame once more, feeling heavenly grateful that his own room was accommodated with the electric heating as otherwise he would’ve been afraid of freezing to death at night.</p><p>“I think I should go to sleep, it’s been a long day,” murmured Hastings, palming his eyes like a tired child, which brought another tender smile to Poirot’s lips.</p><p>“I agree, you must be exhausted by two journeys to Teddington and one back,” he acknowledged Hastings’ effort, being at most satisfied with the sudden tired joy, beaming at him from Hastings’ face.</p><p>“It was fun,” said Hastings in such a low voice, it resembled something between a sleepy purr and a whisper, sending Poirot’s heart aflutter. Hastings’ eyes were gleaming with fondness and had not he stood up in the next instance, Poirot felt that he might’ve said something inappropriate.</p><p>And he couldn’t allow himself to do that as until now he was able to live with Hastings without him knowing about the feelings Poirot had for him, but… Hastings started to notice things, and Poirot knew he should be careful and not to jeopardize their friendship, which was the only thing, saving him from prison. Yes, Poirot knew that his own career and his own life depended on Hastings, but he wasn’t nervous about it. There wasn’t a more trustful and loyal man in the world.</p><p>“Shall we go, old thing?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Philip Henderson</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Honestly, Poirot, I have no idea what you expect to learn from Mr Henderson. He is a decent chap and a very ambitious young trainer. I cannot see why he would ruin his career by being involved in such matter,” Hastings commented on Poirot’s interest in visiting stables where Arlington’s horses were trained for the past six years.</p><p>“As much as I treasure your opinion on that Hastings, I am quite sure we will find out something at least moderately intriguing about Monsieur Kirby there. After all, Monsieur Henderson is very much involved in horse racing likewise Monsieur Kirby was, therefore, he could be the one who will provide us with information on his legacy among these people,” explained Poirot once Hastings stopped the car on the crossroad.</p><p>“Moreover, Madame St. Claire revealed Monsieur Henderson was not on amicable terms with Sir Arlington, and he had to rely on Monsieur Kirby that he would keep him as employed as a trainer of his horses. Without Monsieur Kirby, he might be in danger of losing his job,” Poirot added, making Hastings look at him in puzzlement.</p><p>“So you don’t think Henderson is a suspect?”</p><p>“No, mon ami, but I’d like to confirm that to myself by asking him a few questions,” was the answer that satisfied Hastings thoroughly, so with a small smile, he moved the shift lever and pointed the Lagondo into the right direction, heading for the Arlington’s stables.</p><p>XXXXX</p><p>“Do you smell that, Poriot? Isn’t it wonderful?” Hastings pulled the car over, hopping out of it enthusiastically and inhaling deeply into his lungs, smiling happily. “Nothing smells better than cars and horses!”</p><p>He was so mesmerized by the scenery, by the stables, the green meadows behind them, by the mighty animals walking so close to him, that he even overheard Poirot’s sour remark about the unpleasant stink lingering in the air, which wouldn’t have ruined Hastings’ joy anyway. Once he got back to reality, he turned to his friend, flashing him with a bright smile that swiftly changed into a worried expression.</p><p>“Are you cold, Poirot? Shouldn’t I look for somebody to show you a warmer place while I search for Mr Henderson?” was the Englishman next to the Belgian in a split second, waiting for the answer with q weary look in his blue eyes.</p><p>“That would be very kind of you, Hastings,” shivered the detective, the chilly weather apparently biting him during the ride.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have gone so fast…” murmured Hastings, watching his friend who despite numerous layers of warm clothing trembled, but in the next moment, he noticed a young boy approaching them. Hastings walked towards him, meeting him in the middle and explaining him the situation.</p><p>“You know, the boss’ house’s locked while he’s not there, so it’d be best to wait in the smaller barn. There’s a dressing room, but we use it just to sip on coffee and it’s pretty warm in there. Just follow me, and I’ll get you my boss then,” the boy poured out. He was about fourteen years old, Hastings estimated, and while talking, he was eagerly eyeing Poirot.</p><p>“Very well, thank you,” Hastings smiled at the kid, returning to Poirot and musing amusedly that Poirot had his fans even among stable apprentices. Poirot seemed pleased by the news about the warm room and the both of them ventured towards the smaller barn where Hasting counted eight stalls for horses even before he entered the dressing room used as something like a common room. There were worn out armchairs and a similarly old sofa, however, it looked quite clean here, and most importantly the room was rather warm.</p><p>“If you’d like a cup of tea of coffee, help yourself, but I’ve gotta dash for my boss and then get back to my horse. Pleased to meet you, gents!” smiled the kid briefly, eyes sparkling with sheer joy once he looked at Poirot, but then he ran away, leaving them on their own.</p><p>Poirot carefully examined one of the armchairs, but in the end he sat down while Hastings took his place at the door frame to be able to communicate with Poirot and watch one of the curious horses at once. A dark bay was chewing hay and observing Hastings, otherwise nothing was really happening around as Hastings supposed these horses were already taken care off.</p><p>“How long do you think it might take Monsieur Henderson to reach us?” raised Poirot a question while glancing around the small room, evidently being dissatisfied with where he was.</p><p>“It depends,” Hastings shrugged. “He might be in the larger barn, giving some instructions to the staff, he might be dealing with paperwork, or he might be watching the horses on the gallops.”</p><p>Hastings kept looking at the one curious horse who had just dropped a handful of hay without paying any attention to it. Smiling fondly, Hastings turned to Poirot who was giving him quite an impatient look, urging him to answer the question properly.</p><p>“Oh, I think he’ll be here in a minute,” he blurted out, striving to console Poirot immediately, yet as he was against laying or not telling the whole truth in general, he had to add, “Or in an hour if one lot of horses has just left.”</p><p>“An hour, mon dieu,” rambled Poirot under his breath, leaning his cane against the sofa, however, he said nothing more as Hastings assumed he was probably too grateful for the warmth in here to complain as he usually would have.</p><p>Fortunately, the trainer was, indeed, in the larger stables, therefore, he appeared in the smaller barn approximately after ten minutes.</p><p>“I’m sorry, gentlemen, I was checking one of my horses for a sore foreleg,” the man apologized once he joined them in the room, closing the door behind him. “Philip Henderson,” introducing himself, he shook his hands with the both of the guests before they took the seats. “I’ve heard you’re here because of Jack’s murder.”</p><p>“You do not seem to be surprised, Monsieur, or moved by it,” said Poirot and Hastings agreed with his observations as Henderson seemed agitated, yet probably more due to the injured horse. It seemed like…</p><p>Henderson sighed and closed his eyes for a brief second. Then he pointed them back to Poirot and Hastings, who noticed the slightest hint of sadness within them.</p><p>“I can’t say I’m surprised because I’m not,” Henderson drawled, probably thinking how to put his thoughts into correct words. “You know, Jack Kirby was a good man. A proper man. But Arlington is a queer mess, so there was lots of talks about them being too close to each, which is something a decent citizen should despise.”</p><p>Hastings’s fingers involuntarily clenched into fists. The look in his eyes so sharp Henderson must’ve noticed it because in a span of seconds he continued, gazing right at Hastings.</p><p>“Such reactions have no place in the Great Britain, Captain, so be careful about that,” he offered his advice before he continued, curtly, “I can assure you that I do not care about Arglinton’s deviancy in the slightest. He is my employer and he has never behaved inappropriately in my presence, moreover, gentlemen, I’m taking care of twenty one horses with just five people at my disposal. I have no time for sticking my nose in other people’s matters,” elaborated Henderson on the topic, and he appeared to be quite relaxed for a man undergoing the questioning.</p><p>Hastings still wasn’t appeased by his statement, yet he managed to ease the tension within his body. After all, Poirot said Henderson wasn’t a suspect, which the trainer had been probably assuming as well.</p><p>“What was your relationship with M Kirby like?” Poirot proceeded to the supposed merit of the interview.</p><p>“Quite friendly, I think. We weren’t friends for life, but Jack understood my vision and always stood at my side when Arlington was doubting my decisions. He was coming here at least twice a week to check on the horses, have a cup of tea, discuss what kinds of animals should be bought… We respected each other, yes, but we usually talked only about horses,” shrugged Henderson. “It’s a huge loss for me, but… as I said, I had been sort of expecting something bad was about to happen to him for years.”</p><p>“Have you tried to warn him?” Hastings hurried up with another question, completely unaware of the glance Poirot gave him.</p><p>“What do you think, Captain?” Henderson flashed Hastings with an ironic grimace. “Of course, I did! Numerous times, but Jack was convinced I was overreacting. For months I’ve been telling him to move away from the house and to live alone because him sharing a house with Arlington is being frowned upon… And dangerous,” echoed his voice grimness, settling in the wrinkles around Henderson’s eyes. “He would always brush all my warnings off… Repeating he wasn’t involved in any kind of a forbidden relationship with Arlington and that he saved him from the streets, so cannot leave him and so on.”</p><p>As Henderson went quiet, he was looking down on the carpet as if he was reminiscing the conversation he had with Kirby, knowing there won’t be another one. Hasting was suddenly overwhelmed by compassion.</p><p>“I just think he didn’t want to admit he was in danger,” added Henderson, glancing up to the guests. “But if you asked who killed Jack, I wouldn’t be able to give you any names. It could be literally anybody who had ever encountered Jack or Arlington and because the both of them were quite well-known…”</p><p>“It is alright, Monsieur Henderson. I am more interested in your point of view. I understand that you believed Monsieur Kirby that there was nothing… between him and Sir Arlington, yes?” Poirot raised a question in a slow, careful tone, which caught Hastings’ attention, and he, quite dumbly, only then thought of how the conversation could affect his dear friend.</p><p>Has he reacted adequately when he was enraged by Henderson’s remarks? And yesterday, when he was so deeply shaken by the conversation they overhead during the dinner… Shouldn’t he have been more considerate? It should’ve been him taking Poirot away from them, not the other way around…</p><p>“…So, yes, Jack stressed to me that he had never inclined towards romantic relationships. His job was his life, that was the way he kept saying it.”</p><p>Too absorbed in his thoughts, Hastings caught only the last part of Henderson’s answer, however, it was apparently the most significant part.</p><p>“And what about you, Monsieur Henderson? When we were talking to Madame St. Claire, she seemed to be very fond of you,” Poirot mentioned a fact that a bit surprised Hastings, yet he easily comprehended the information.</p><p>“I’m not sure I’m following,” was the reply, which sounded true to Hastings, yet he saw the way Henderson shifted uncomfortably.</p><p>“Indeed? She’s a very bright young lady, and she certainly admires you, haven’t you noticed?” Hastings gave him a little smile, sensing Poirot was looking at him, so turned briefly to him, realizing that the detective wasn’t upset about what he had said. No, he was merely amused, upon which Hastings’ joy reached also his eyes when looking back at Henderson.</p><p>Smirking, the guy rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Yes, she’s very bright and quite a good conversationalist, but that’s it,” said Henderson with determination that, however, didn’t stand a chance to Poirot’s drive for the truth.</p><p>“You’ve been a great help, Monsieur Henderson, so please, continue in that way,” was Poirot’s voice gentle, but Henderson probably figured out that detective would unearth the truth anyway, and sighing tiredly, he spoke up again.</p><p>“Alright, alright, I’m interested in Miss St. Claire in the same way she is in me, but it’s not that easy. Hell, I wanted to ask her out, but how can I now? It’d look like I’m eager to get into Arlington’s house and to replace Jack! I can’t do that now… I suppose that in the future, I will do it because… You know, Arlington is very fond of Miss St. Claire and I hope that she’d be capable of… softening the differences between me and Arlington.”</p><p>Once Henderson paused, Hastings was again hit by the wave of compassion as he was quite able to imagine the struggle Henderson was going through. It was a rather sticky situation, he thought.</p><p>“But as you know almost everything already, there is another reason I’ve been hesitating with being straight with Miss St. Claire,” Henderson’s eyes were darting from Poirot to Hastings, whom assumed that Henderson maybe wanted to say everything because he needed that himself. To confess maybe… “When I met Miss St. Claire for the first time, after a couple of minutes she burst in tears. I asked what was wrong, and once she calmed down, she disclosed that my gesticulation and my overall behaviour reminded her of her late brother who died during the war. I doubt that will help your investigation in any way, but as you pressed me into talking about Miss St. Claire…”</p><p>“More information is always better than no information, M Henderson,” said Poirot and Hastings smiled mildly at the kindness resonating through Poirot’s voice. However, Hastings did so almost automatically as his thoughts had been already wandering on the battle fields of France. He used to know one St. Claire who fell victim to the war and he was still able to recall his face, his eyes…</p><p>“Shall we go, Hastings?”</p><p>Only then the Englishman returned to reality, looking up to his friend, who was already standing.</p><p>“Of course, back to the guesthouse or somewhere else?” he asked, raising to his feet.</p><p>“Back to the guesthouse,” said Poirot and with remarkable enthusiasm, he left the dressing room while Hastings a bit bemusedly glanced at Henderson, staring into space and not really aware of then anymore.</p><p>In the end, Hastings swallowed his goodbye, following Poirot out of the stable and towards the car. The chilly wind bit his face, making his shiver slightly.</p><p>“Is there anything else on today’s schedule?” inquired Hastings curiously, yet a sudden impulse of worries made him add something, “Because I’d like you to stay somewhere warm for the rest of the day.”</p><p>Taking his seat in the car, Poirot fastened his scarf, saying, “I’d like that, too, Hastings. My tisane and a place close to the fireplace, this is what I need right now, so yes. I only have to make a call, and then we can savour the hospitality of our accommodation.”</p><p>A pleased smiled creped upon Hastings’ lips as he was watching his friend, bracing himself for the ride that Hastings strived to be as fluent as possible. It was the least he could do for his dearest friend.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. At Johnny’s Part 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even though it wasn’t something Hastings would often do, Poirot couldn’t have been surprised when Hastings excused himself after their lunch, revealing his intention to take a nap. He must’ve been still tired from three rather long rides. Poirot, of course, didn’t mind as he did a little bit of reading in his room, then he mused over the case, but because he didn’t have all the available information, he took in consideration each theory that came across his mind.</p><p>Checking time, he assumed it was appropriate enough to call Japp as it was possible that there had already been some details, provided by the coroner, on the murder. Heading to the ground floor, he asked to be patched through to Scotland Yard, reaching one particular Chief Inspector.</p><p>“What took you so long, Poirot? I’ve expected your call in the morning!” was the usually grumpy voice extraordinarily cheerful, which amused the detective despite the subtle pang of irritation.</p><p>“I was investigating, my dear Chief Inspector, but being robbed of your daunting presence here, it took longer that it usually would,” Poirot acceded to Japp’s game, mocking him a bit, “but please, encompass me with the facts you’ve acquired from the coroner with a certain success.”</p><p>The corner of Poirot’s lips twitched at the annoyed sound Japp produced, yet listened carefully to the short list of details on Kirby. It was also revealed that the dogs weren’t drugged.</p><p>“But I supposed it would be for the best if you saw the results in person. You can observe the body as well as the coat and horseshoe,” suggested Japp when he was finished with the enumeration of the facts.</p><p>“Bein. Tomorrow morning?”</p><p>“Works for me. Poirot,” said Japp and adding his goodbye, he hung up.</p><p>The rest of the afternoon was rather uneventful, including their dinner that was spared of any overheard conversations, fortunately, so in good mood, they then relocated to the common room, seating themselves again in the armchairs closest to the fire.</p><p>“So, has Japp said anything or we have to wait till tomorrow?” Hastings referred to the only information Poirot gave him during the meal – that they were going to London in the morning because Japp had suggested so in the phone call.</p><p>Poirot pondered whether he should keep it all to himself, revealing only those bits he thought useful, but as he looked at Hastings, patiently waiting for the answer, he surrendered. After all, his usually eager friend wasn’t pressing him for any information, so he decided to grant him with all the details, so Hastings could indulge in his favourite business - in concocting far-fetched theories.</p><p>“Our dear Chief Inspector confirmed there were found two objects about a mile away from the Arlington’s residence. A horseshoe, matching the victim’s wound, and a beige coat which could presumably belong to our killer,” repeated Poirot what Japp told him over the phone. “On Kirby’s account, Japp only revealed the date of birth, 18<sup>th</sup> April 1878, and that the dogs weren’t drugged. ”</p><p>“This horseshoe could be the murder weapon!” Hasting got immediately excited, which amused Poirot immensely, smiling kindly at his friend as he nodded.</p><p>“Yes, Hastings, it could be,” admitting it could be so, he doubt there would be any fingerprints. Plunging back into his own thoughts, he left Hastings to mull over his own ideas, but as their evening beverages arrived and Poirot thanked for them, he noticed Hastings’ forehead was marked by a wrinkle of deep concentration.</p><p>Smiling at how adorable Hastings was, Poirot took his glass and, quite interested, he inquired, “What is it, mon ami?”</p><p>Hastings looked up, confused.</p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“I see something is troubling you. What is it?” he asked softly, curious about what was going on Hastings’ mind, yet benevolent to let it pass had Hastings wished so.</p><p>A pained expression crossed Hastings’ face. Probably to gain more courage, he reached for his glass of bourbon, taking a large gulp and keeping the glass in hands. With his eyes pointed into the liquid, he finally spoke up.</p><p> “Poirot, I… if I’m making it more difficult to you, please, tell me,” he briefly glanced at his friend before averting his gaze again.</p><p>Now, Poirot knew the reason for Hastings’ insecurity and it spread a pleasant wave of warmth within his chest, realizing how much Hastings cared about his well-being.</p><p>“I simply don’t understand why it seems that everybody considered Sir Arlington… queer. How… why, or…” represented Hastings the embodiment of puzzlement as he stared at Poirot as if he had the power of all knowledge in the world.</p><p>“You are the one interested in horse racing, you have never heard any rumours about him? About his style of life?” Poirot gave him a few hints, but as Hastings shook his head, the detective elaborated, “With all honesty, Hastings, I do not know. It might be because they were living together for so long, both of them being bachelors…”</p><p><em>Always appearing in the public together</em>, added Poirot’s consciousness whose words Poirot kept to himself. Even now chills ran down his spine as he noticed how similar their lives were to the ones Arlington and Kirby had. He was at most glad Hasting accepted his inclination to men with such calm, but Poirot wasn’t about to try their friendship by providing Hastings with another peculiarity to deal with.</p><p>“Mon ami, it might be only the consequence of the power of rumours. Somebody once declared their opinion and it took its own course until most people knowing Arlington shared this opinion,” Poirot offered another thought which Hastings nodded to, acknowledging it, however, he still looked quite bewildered.</p><p>Waiting for another question, Poirot sipped on his bourbon, feeling comfortable thanks to the pleasant company, the rather tasty bourbon, and the heat produced by fire.</p><p>“Supposing the motive for the murder was the one we were talking about, wouldn’t be Sir Arlington the more… obvious choice? I mean… why Kirby if Arlington was the one everyone thought queer,” explained Hastings what was bothering him, his blue eyes bright and focused.</p><p>“Yes, Hastings, I’ve been also asking myself this question,” Poirot conceded, turning his gaze to the flames before he looked back to his friend. “Why do you think?”</p><p>“Maybe it was the plan, to kill them both, I mean. But as Sir Arlington wasn’t home, the murderer killed Kirby and ran away in hope he could come back one day, finishing his bloodcurdling deed,” was the answer Hastings offered, his voice vibrating with strong emotions as he unravelled his idea, making Poirot fond of his enthusiasm and amused at his wild imagination at once.</p><p>However, the Englishman had a point. It might have happened like that, yet Poirot had a notion the reason for the murder was of a different sort, and the whole queerness just should conceal the real motive.</p><p>“It might be, Hastings, but Kirby could’ve been the only target as well. Somebody wanted to violently destroy their relationship, so they murdered the one who could be approached more easily. Moreover, Sir Arlington is wealthy enough to bribe those enforcing the law…” murmured Poirot the last part of the sentence, willing to answer Hastings’ question, but he was already getting consumed by his own thoughts again.</p><p> Thankfully, there were so many of them that he didn’t have time to feel himself affected by the possible motive of the murder, or… or maybe only to such extend to be more careful in the future because he would have never forgiven himself had he put his dear Hastings in danger.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. At Scotland Yard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Upon their arrival to the morgue, they didn’t learn much new information on the murder but for the that the heavy blow was definitely lethal, and that the discovered horseshoe could’ve been the killing weapon. However, there were no traces of fingerprints or blood. The shape and measures fitted though. It was found on the bank of a local stream with no traces of tires or footprints around.</p><p>The coroner also informed them the victim’s blood didn’t contain any dangerous substances, moreover, Kirby was overall a man in good condition while only his right knee was a subject for quarterly visits at the doctor’s.</p><p>They also looked at the mentioned horseshoe, but had Poirot found anything significant about it, he kept it to himself as Hastings didn’t ask. It seemed obvious to him that it was the murderous weapon, yet remnants of the deed were cunningly erased.</p><p>“The coat appears to be fresh new as if somebody bought it especially for the murder,” the coroner commented on the piece of garment, laying on the table in front of them. “Nothing significant about it, I’m afraid. It’s just a rather common coat…”</p><p>“I see that,” Poirot uttered and Hastings glanced down to his face, expecting a hint of impatience within his features. And of course, they were there, but it was also concentration what was emanating from Poirot’s expression. As Japp said, unfortunately, they didn’t figure out anything remarkable, yet Poirot might’ve seen something they had overlooked.</p><p>However, it certainly didn’t appear to be that case.</p><p>“Well, maybe we have something else, but I doubt it will be any use for you, Poirot,” Japp spoke up, waiting for Poirot to turn his gaze to him. “We’ve tried to test Kirby’s hands basically for anything and three of his fingers were covered in dog saliva and a few dog hairs were found, too. It isn’t much, but it’s an honest work we’ve conducted here.”</p><p>“It is not much, Japp, indeed, but I think it may help the investigation,” Poirot said in quite a satisfied tone, surprising Hastings by the sudden change of his mood.</p><p>“I cannot see how,” expressed Hastings his confusion, yet he let it pass as Poirot gave him just a secretive smile, said his goodbye to Japp and the coroner, and left the morgue with Hatings at his heels.</p><p>“Poirot! Wait!”</p><p>The both of them stopped, turning to Japp, rushing towards them.</p><p>“The case has attracted the press and it’s possible they’re already gathering at the front entrance, so… count on it,” he advised them. “I’ll give them something later on, but now as we’ve got nothing, it doesn’t make sense talking to them.”</p><p>“Naturellent,” nodded Poirot and headed out of the building where the both of them realized Japp was quite right. There weren’t many journalists, but half a dozen could still make life a bit less pleasant as they immediately bombed Poirot with questions, shouting one after another, but they somehow managed to throng through them with the last man standing at Poirot’s side.</p><p>“Mister Poirot, do you suspect the well-known pervert Arlington killing his supposed-to-be lover?” the rude question stopped neither Poirot, nor Hastings in their departure, however Hastings felt a shiver running down his spine, the anger flowing into his blood, yet he forced himself to ignore the man as Poirot would definitely think was the best option.</p><p>But that was not the end of harassment coming from the man. He followed them and Hastings kept his boiling anger under the cover for another couple of suggestins coming in their way, but at one point, Hastings halted his movements.</p><p>“Or you’ve might regarded Arlington as innocent ‘cause his relationship with Kirby was as dubious as you’re having with your… eh… associate,” said the shady journalist in a sly manner as if he was genuinely looking for some trouble which he was successfully about to get in.</p><p>As in a slowed down movie, Hastings saw Poirot half-turning back, probably sensing his friend had stopped, however, Hastings had enough. Not a single Poirot’s gesture, not a twitch of his lips, not his warning look could have talked Hastings out of his intention.</p><p>He faced the journalist who wasviciously grinning at him. As he was showing no remorse and his little eyes shone with calculation, Hastings somewhere deep inside his mind heard the voice, reminding him that the man wanted a reaction from him, especially passionate and loud reaction, however, Hastings at first went for another way of expressing himself.</p><p>In a split second his fist hit the journalist’s chin, forcing him to fight for balance which he eventually lost and fell on the ground. Sitting on the dirty pavement, he flashed Hastings with a disdainful glare.</p><p>“There’s nothing shameful for two man to share an apartment or a house,” he hissed and feeling so powerful, he glanced around to see people staring at him and at the journalist, palming his chin on the ground. With his chest burning with emotions he needed to voice, he repeated himself more clearly for others to hear, “There’s nothing shameful about two man sharing an apartment or a house. There’s nothing shameful about keeping your friend company. Quite the opposite. I feel honoured to be a close friend of Hercule Poirot and nobody has the right to suggest our relationship is dubious.”</p><p>Saying that out loud, a huge burden fell off Hastings’ shoulders. He inhaled properly, feeling light and freed as if… as if he needed to declare his strong emotions towards Poirot publicly to finally convince himself that Poirot’s inclinations didn’t matter to him. No, they didn’t. Not in the slightest and he was determined to defend Poirot for all cost. Not because he didn’t want think of him in such a way, but because he wanted to protect him from whatever harm could be done to him.</p><p>With a final look at the small, yet quite astonished, crowd, Hastings turned back to Poirot who looked as surprised as Hastings had ever seen him. It took him aback, but the detective quickly put himself together, waiting for Hastings to walk to him, and then they side by side headed for the car.</p><p>Once they got in, Hastings without a word started the engine, leaving the scene with his head held high, however, he slightly began to regret his outburst. It wasn’t English at all. It wasn’t himself at all as he had never tended to act out of anger, and there he was. Passionately lecturing people on the street how things between him and Poirot work. His voice clear and loud, not faltering in the slightest.</p><p>“Where to?” he asked, stopping the car after they put some distance between them and the Scotland Yard.</p><p>“Somewhere quiet,” was the answer said by Poirot who suddenly seemed to be very tired, very exhausted by the life he lead. Hastings’ heart throbbed at the sight, but before he could say anything, Poirot added, “Whiteheaven Mansions, please.”</p><p>Making peace with the fact Poirot was probably going to need some time to process the incident, Hastings without any other words navigated the Lagonda through London’s street before he parked the car in front of Whiteheaven Mansions. Then they headed upstairs to Poirot’s apartment where Hastings silently watched his friend disappear to his bedroom. Seeing his friend in such a state left Hastings not only speechless, but also sad and somehow, he felt unbelievably alone.</p><p>However, he perfectly respected Poirot’s seek for privacy, therefore, he seated himself on the sofa and in order to kill some time, he opted for reading newspaper. Leaving the apartment was out of question. He wanted to be close to Poirot, so he could reach out for him anytime he would need it. Despite worries about his friend, Hastings read some of the articles on sport, yet the voice nagging him for what he had done was preserving, constant, digging a hole full of fear and regret within his chest.</p><p>What if he had said something stupid? Or worse, what if had suggested in any way that there could something going on between them, and he didn’t even realize it? He might’ve put the both of them in serious danger…</p><p>Before he could’ve dove further into his doubts, a sound of quickly opened door eased him back to reality. Folding the newspaper into his lap, his gaze automatically searched for his friend who entered the common room and acknowledged Hastings’ presence with a brief look at him.</p><p>“Hastings, would you be so kind and look up the financial history of Sir Arlington’s stables?” he asked while heading behind his desk.</p><p>“Of course,” Hastings lay the newspaper on the sofa and stood up. “You mean the gained prizes, the sums for which horses were bought…”</p><p>“Exactement. You understand the business, so look into it and try to find whether some of the purchases by Monsieur Kirby could’ve been suspicious, whether he managed to buy a very talented horse for a peculiar price, something like that.”</p><p>“Understood,” nodded the Englishman and started for the phone in Ms Lemon’s office.</p><p>“One more thing, mon ami,” Poirot said and Hastings turned around, fixing his look at his friend. “For the noon, we are going back to Teddington. You are being invited for quite an acceptable lunch.”</p><p>Hastings tilted his head questioningly.</p><p>“By whom?”</p><p>Picking up the earphone, Poirot looked up to Hastings again, and even though he maintained his calm façade, something within his eyes gave away the subtlest hint of the storm of emotion, raging inside Poirot’s soul.</p><p>But his voice didn’t quiver when replying, “Par moi.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. At Johnny’s Part 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Enjoy your meal, Hastings, we’ll discuss the case later. Do not worry yourself,” Poirot gave his brave friend a little smile as they were seated back at Johnny’s, their table already crowded with various dishes.</p><p>Even though he would’ve loved to prepare the lunch for Hastings himself, there were other deeds he had to occupy with, therefore, he ceased the opportunity, leaving the decent cook at Johnny’s to take care of it. After all, Poirot was the one paying for it, so he ordered quite a vast number of small portions, hoping Hastings was going to enjoy at least some of them. And as he was from time to time peeking at his friend, his plan was successful as Hastings tasted each meal with sheer enthusiasm, occasionally happily beaming at Poirot for he had been said not to thank him anymore, so he clang to flashing Poirot with numerous grateful smiles.</p><p>However, it was Poirot who was at most grateful, touched, and of course, proud of Hastings for defending him so passionately, and in such a non-English way. He knew Hasting would’ve probably never done it for anybody else as such public displays were out of his comfort zone, yet in front of the journalist, Hastings didn’t hold himself back. He let his heart speak up…</p><p>Involuntarily shivering at the thought, Poirot set the cutlery aside while his friend understood the tremble differently.</p><p>“Are you cold?” asking Poirot, Hastings looked at him intently, eager to do literally anything if it was the case.</p><p>“No, not really, Hastings,” Poirot shook his head, refraining himself from smiling as it would’ve confused Hastings even more.</p><p>“Good, because I wanted to propose a short walk…?” Hastings suggested good-naturedly, eyeing Poirot with insecurity as he was sort of expecting another negative reply. “It’s cold outsider, of course, but otherwise the weather is quite pleasant… the sun’s shining, the sky is spotless…”</p><p>Despite it was true, Poirot wasn’t keen to return outside as the interior of Johnny’s was nicely warm.</p><p>“It might be the last sunny day of the year,” he remarked while gazing out of the window, before he glanced baco at Poirot, his smile innocent and unbelievably genuine.</p><p>He could’ve said no and urge Hastings to go on his own, leaving him there to sulk over Hastings choosing a walk instead of a conversation next to the fire. He could’ve done that, however, the thrill written in Hastings’ features made him neglect such thoughts and simply admit that he wanted to please his brave friend whose loyalty he should’ve never ever doubted. Surprisingly, it was almost painful to admit that Hastings cared about him so much that he accepted him and defended him even though there was a reason for which he could turn his back on him.</p><p>But Hastings was still there, currently helping him into his coat, and at most willing to hold the door open for him, and then silently walking by his side, absolutely unfazed by his Belgian friend’s secret he kept away from the judging world.</p><p>They didn’t rush anywhere, just walking slowly through the streets in a companionable silence till Hastings raised a question, “It seems like Kirby’s surrounding isn’t much shocked by his death, don’t you think? It’s feels as if… as if they aren’t dismayed by such a horrendous act a murder is.”</p><p>Spotting a bench, Poirot didn’t answer right away as he headed to the place where they could sit down, yet Hastings again interpreted the silence differently.</p><p>“You aren’t surprised either?” altered his tone into a sincerely alarmed one, but as they sat on the bench, Poirot glared at him for a second.</p><p>“Hastings, I am not surprised un meurtre occurred,” Poirot conceded, waiting for Hastings to nod slightly, before he looked at the horizon as he continued, “however, Poirot is reluctant to believe that the motive for the murder was the presupposed relationship between Monsieur Kirby and Sir Arlington. There is, of course, no proof of it, but I think, Hastings, there was another reason for the murder, yet it is remaining hidden to us.”</p><p>“You do not think there were romantic feelings between them?”</p><p>The question was voiced so timidly, so gently, that Poirot simply had to look at his friend, staring down on the ground, as the feeling of love towards Hastings got the better of him.</p><p>“I don’t know, mon ami,” managed Poirot to say after a while he spent watching his handsome friend’s features, trying to control himself once again properly. “Maybe they did, but having a relationship would be too dangerous.”</p><p>“But the maids and the butler seemed trusted by Sir Arlington…” Hastings was thinking aloud. “However, the chauffer…”</p><p>“Indeed, Hastings, the chauffer might’ve caused them real trouble,” Poirot agreed, but knew too well that Monsieur Price was a highly improbable murderer.</p><p>“He has quite a strong alibi…” murmured Hastings. “He could’ve been the confederate though.”</p><p>Poirot had been pondering the possibility, but as a new fact arose thanks to Japp, Poirot was currently pursuing circumstances of that one.</p><p>“Hastings, what do you assume of the victim, having dog saliva and a few dog hairs on his fingers and on a sleeve?” he rather opted for asking a question, being quite curious about what Hastings was able to come up with.</p><p>“That there were dogs in the room,” shrugged Hastings. “He was petting them there, or they had found him right after his death and they tried to figure out what happened to him. Or it might’ve been Kirby who fed and walked them!” a triumphant smile settled on Hastings’ face as he glanced at Poirot who couldn’t supress an amused twitch of his lips.</p><p>Even though Hastings was so strikingly handsome when he was sure he had solved the seemingly simple, yet tricky question, Poirot had to correct him.</p><p>“I admit your theory would make sense if Kirby wasn’t very much afraid of Sir Arlington’s dogs. After all, they are three… Berger Allemande?”</p><p>“German Shepherds,” Hastings supplied Poirot with requested the piece of information, smiling briefly at him as usually for he didn’t mind improving Poirot’s English vocabulary in the slightest. “How do you know that?”</p><p>“I called Sir Arlington,” Poirot informed Hastings. “While you were looking for finances of his stable, I called, of course, to Johnny’s to place an order, but then I rang to Sir Arlington, asking him about the possibility whether Monsieur Kirby would take care of the dogs. And he interestingly enough said that it was almost impossible. The dogs are allowed only to the room upstairs just because Monsieur Kirby was so afraid of them.”</p><p>“Therefore, he couldn’t have been responsible for feeding and walking them. But how…?”</p><p>“How could’ve the saliva and hair appeared on his fingers and sleeve?” Poirot finished the sentence for Hasting who, bemused and highly intrigued, nodded. “Well, I expect that your theory about the body getting… sniffed by to dogs is very much possible. However, Sir Arlington insisted that the dogs are properly trained and they would have never entered the common room unless they’d followed somebody they knew.”</p><p>Frowning, Hastings thought it over for a few seconds, before he incredulously cried, “Dear Lord, it must’ve been somebody from the house!”</p><p>Poirot smiled.</p><p>“Très bien, Hastings, it must’ve been somebody either living or often visiting the house, moreover, somebody whom was acquainted with the dogs… ”</p><p>“Are we sure it was Price who was driving Arlington to London?” sounded Hastings so exasperated that it caught Poirot’s attention more than what he had actually said, but… when he considered it.</p><p>“You’re a genius, mon ami,” Poirot flashed Hastings with an appreciated glance, yet ignored pride he felt for him because of the idea that Hastings ignited in his mind.</p><p>Hastings seemed to be still puzzled, however, he was used to not understanding what Poirot meant, so he went only for a mere smile, but as he wanted to ask why he had deserved such a compliment, Poirot shook his head.</p><p>“No, no, Hastings, at first I must let the grey cells dwell on this idea,” Poirot halted all Hatsings’ endeavours to clear out his confusion, but before he could be plunged into disappointment, Poirot demanded, “Let’s walk back to Johnny’s and you can tell me how you have succeeded with your task.”</p><p>Consoled, Hastings stood up and with a bit revived spirits, he spoke up as they were on the way to the guesthouse.</p><p>“I’m not sure if there is anything to talk about really. On Arlington’s behalf, Kirby was buying horses of various sorts for various sums of money, and the most striking purchase happened almost seven years ago when they started the cooperation with Philip Henderson. Back then, Kirby bought privately an unnamed yearling, coming from not a very demanded family, but the colt was later on a champion three-year-old horses and maintained quite respectable results even as an older horse. But in horse racing, it’s not an unusual thing to buy a very cheap horse that turns out to be great. That’s just how it works…”</p><p>“Interesting,” Poirot commented on Hastings’ narration. It didn’t seem the information would be useful, but who knows. He still wasn’t sure about the motive, therefore, he listened carefully to Hastings’ further research he had done.</p><p>“Henderson is completely clean as a trainer, but I remembered that Arlington relocated his horses to him after the previous trainer had a doping case. It wasn’t anything serious, sometimes it happens the a horse doesn’t absorb the medicine as quickly as it’s supposed to, which can lead to discovery of a doped horse. Despite the fact that the substance wouldn’t help a horse to perform at all, the trainer, Hugh Henderson, was suspended for a couple of years. Fortunately for him, he had wanted to retire for some time, so Arlington took his advice and gave a chance to his nephew, Philip… So, I guess, they is no bad blood among them,” concluded Hastings what he had found out.</p><p>Poirot more or less agreed as he trusted Hastings’ information on horse racing. He was an expert after all, he mused, but still he succumbed to his nature and asked, “Is Hugh Henderson alive?”</p><p>“Yes, he is. He resides somewhere near the Goodwood Racecourse, I believe. He works there as a clerk,” Hastings was prompt to provide Poirot with the answer, his tone light and almost carefree as if he, indeed, didn’t suspect Hugh Henderson of anything vicious.</p><p>“Well done, mon ami. The time will show how your work helps Poirot with the case,” he said before he plunged back into his thoughts, covering the rest of the journey in silence. Once they arrived to the guesthouse, they agreed on meeting again for the dinner, but neither of them knew back then, what the evening was holding for them.</p><p>They sat down in the dining room and slipped back into an amicable conversation, not at all paying attention to the young woman, asking the host whether Captain Hastings was present.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Caroline St. Claire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Looking back, Hastings felt better than during the morning. Poirot wasn’t mad at him for what he had said to the group of journalists, moreover, he invited him for a lunch that was great, even though Hastings would’ve preferred Poirot cooking for him. He absent-mindedly smiled, remembering the pitch-perfect taste of each of Poirot’s dishes. Well, Johnny’s had a decent cook, but Poirot was far better.</p><p>Well spirited, Hastings was together with Poirot awaiting his dinner, and as their conversation faded out for a while, his eyes wandered around. As soon as he spotted Miss St. Claire, being pointed towards them by their host, he gave her a friendly smile. However, she didn’t smile back in the slightest. Her face was stern, her eyes hard, and she was gazing at Hastings like he was the most vicious villain in the world. It felt like a cold shower, yet he maintained his friendly expression until she arrived at their table.</p><p>“What a lovely surprise, Miss St. Claire,” Hastings welcomed the young lady even though her piercing gaze unsettled him deeply, and standing, he offered her a seat.</p><p>“I won’t stay, Captain,” declined Miss St. Claire, nodding at Poirot’s direction before she focused again on Hastings. “Are you Captain Arthur Hastings, don’t you? And do you remember Corporal Lionel St. Claire?”</p><p>Puzzled, Hastings was looking at Miss St. Claire with quite a blank expression, however, as he connected the dots, regarding the name of the soldier and the fact that he died in France…</p><p>“Yes, Miss, indeed,” he admitted. “He was your brother, wasn’t he?”</p><p>“He was, Captain,” she said as her eyes glowed with sorrow, yet the fierceness within them was still intact. “And do you recall how exactly my brother died?”</p><p>Frowning, Hastings fidgeted, yet faced Miss St. Claire.</p><p>“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t, but I’d be flattered if I can enlighten you. Lionel was nineteen years old, scared to death from living in trenches, only skin and bones, yet he didn’t give up. And do you know why? Because a certain Lieutenant took care of him. He encouraged him, forced him to eat at least something, urged him to remain brave in order to protect his brethren in arms. Does it ring a bell?” she almost threw the last sentence into Hastings’ flushed face.</p><p>He was sweating heavily despite not knowing why. He might’ve been just embarrassed or it could’ve been something elsem however, he didn’t think about it much as he was fully focused on Miss St. Claire and her narrative that was bringing some of his deeply buried memories back to life.</p><p>“I know it was you. Lionel told me so in his letters. He was prepared to fight for you, even to die for you, but what have you done? Nothing to preserve his reputation. Entirely nothing to make things right for him and for us. We weren’t even allowed to have a proper funeral! Till these days, my mother is being frown upon by the whole village…” the room resonated with Miss St. Claire’s loud sob, but she managed to recover soon, flashing Hastings with hurt defiance, her disdain towards the man almost palpable. “Not only you’ve ruined Lionel’s remembrance, but you’ve also ruined us...” saying that, Miss St. Claire pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her coat, dabbing her eyes, and with the last, exasperated sigh, she braced herself for another, this time quiet, speech, “I’ve just learnt you’re living a comfortable life, that you’re all safe and sound, so I simply wanted to inform you that some people weren’t that lucky. And some of them weren’t so lucky only because of you.”</p><p>With that, Miss St. Claire turned her back on them and left the room and the whole guesthouse respectively. Hastings kept staring after her for another minute, bewildered and thoroughly sad, a pang of guilt mingling with dull ache, caused by the feeling of wrongful accusation.</p><p>“Are you alright, mon ami?”</p><p>The meaning of the question penetrated the haziness of Hasting’s mind a few seconds after they were uttered. They brought him back to reality, eased him down from the unpleasant memories Miss St. Claire helped him to recall even though he didn’t ask for it. Yet, here they were. Heavy, laying upon his chest as a burden, preventing from enjoying the life at all.</p><p>He blinked at Poirot and forced himself to smile instinctively, being suddenly ashamed of the scene that took place, and also of his own emotions that must’ve been shown in his face.</p><p>“Yes! Yes, of course, old thing,” he said so cheerfully it felt utterly sad. Pathetic. “I say, Poirot, I apologize for what you have seen. I…”</p><p>“But you knew what Miss St. Claire was talking about, yes?” asked Poirot, his head slightly tilted in interest, yet before Hastings replied, their meals arrived, therefore, Poirot assured Hastings that he wasn’t about to let him off the hook, “I believe, you can tell me more after our dinner.”</p><p>Hastings wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of revealing this piece of information about his past. For years, he had been striving to bury these memories deep within his memory, so they wouldn’t nag him constantly, but… He had done everything he could in order to clean Lionel’s name, however, it wasn’t enough. His word against the major’s word. He stood no chance.</p><p>He sagged into one of the armchairs at the fireplace, again being overwhelmed by emotions and memories to such extend, he was sort of puzzled at one point because of the stillness of the room. From the kitchen, some rattle was heard, the other guests were talking in the dining room, however, the place where Hastings and Poirot took refuge in was quiet and the atmosphere…</p><p>Looking sheepishly at Poirot, he was probably also absorbed by his thoughts as he was starring into the fire, and Hastings felt the atmosphere was somehow intimate. Even though he was suffering from the stinging memories, he felt save. Save from being judged as he hoped Poirot would understand he had done his best to protect Lionel. He knew he would.</p><p>Yes, he knew it, so he gulped and courageously opened his mouth, “Once Miss St. Claire said she had a brother who died in the war, I realized I knew one St. Claire… who died in France, but I… well, the memories weren’t pleasant all, therefore I… I guess, I…”</p><p>“You made yourself forget them,” paradoxically, this time it was who Poirot assisted Hasting in searching for the right words, for the fitting explanation.</p><p>“Yes, I… I, indeed, did so,” Hastings nodded, eyes transfixed on the flames. “I guess I succeeded in it as I’ve rekindled the memory of Lionel only in this very evening. Yet I wish I was brave enough to tell Miss. St. Claire that she’s wrong.”</p><p>“Wrong?”</p><p>“Yes, she’s wrong,” Hastings looked up from the fire, their eyes locking. “I believe, I’ve done everything that I could to save Lionel’s reputation,” but then, he averted gaze, gazing down at his hands, rubbing themselves in a nervous gesture. “and to protect his family from… from shame.”</p><p>Poirot was quiet for a while, before he asked very, very gently, “Should you need to talk about it, mon ami, I am here to listen.”</p><p>Such words brought a meek smile upon Hastings’ lips, sorrow and pain being washed away for a moment as fondness and gratitude replaced them. However, he was still adamant in refusing the offer, aiming at dealing with his condition on his own, but then Poirot said something that shook up his determination.</p><p>“Remember, Hastings, that I have shared my most delicate secret with you. And you remained loyal and respectable as always. It is unthinkable that I wouldn’t do the same for you,” Poirot added softly and Hastings’ eyes were gleaming with affection once he pointed them at his friend, the most understanding one he could’ve ever wished for.</p><p>Poirot certainly knew how to persuade Hastings, therefore, the Englishman palmed his face, shifted in his seat while sorting his thoughts and memories in order to provide Poirot with an integrated picture of the issue that was clouding his mind. However, there was more. There was a feelings Hastings was aware of, but he couldn’t quite decipher which memory it belonged to. It resembled nostalgia, it definitely did, yet it went somewhat… deeper. As it was trying to dig a hole within his soul. As it was trying to reach something down there.</p><p>For that time being, he opted for ignoring it as Poirot waited for him to speak up, which Hastings in a span of a few seconds did.</p><p>“As a lieutenant, I was in charge of a company of quite young and inexperienced chaps. Usually they were eager to fight and to protect others, and those who weren’t got assigned a senior soldiers. During one summer, Lionel St. Claire joined my company and I still don’t understand how he hadn’t went crazy during the first week…” Hastings sighed, his exhale filled with wonder and sadness. “He dreaded killing people, which I hated as well, yet… I was protecting my country, but Lionel didn’t care about that. He was too scared for it. But don’t get mi wrong, there’s nothing bad about being unable to kill. It’s nothing shameful, but… you must do it when you’re in the war,” Hastings shrugged, glancing at Poirot who looked interested, nodding at him encouragingly.</p><p>“I tried to help Lionel to accommodate to the conditions in the trenches, basically to help him survive. After a month, I thought he was almost alright, and he genuinely smiled at me and even hugged me once I returned from a reconnaissance, telling me how glad he was I came back, and then… We talked a bit, had as much fun as we were able when being hidden in the trenches, and I felt confident he would endure fighting by my side. He was even keen on doing so, but during one night, when the enemy attacked, he ran away,” sighed Hastings again, eyes buried into the fire, illuminating his handsome features. However, he knew nothing about  that as he was absorbed in doubts whether he could’ve done more for Lionel, whether he could’ve done anything else that would tie them together in such a way that Lionel would remain with him.</p><p>Thinking of this, the feeling of stretching hollowness started to be very insistent, making him to rub his restless hand upon his trousers, his forehead sweating. Nostalgia, sorrow, and guilt, yes, but there was something else similar to a bitter accusation connected with disgust. And disappointment.</p><p>Because somewhere deep within his soul, Hastings knew there was an option.</p><p>“You mean he deserted?” asked Poirot and Hastings nodded silently in affirmation.</p><p>“Officially, yes, he deserted,” Hastings forced his voice to operate again even though he suddenly didn’t want to talk about it anymore as it felt like with each word he was diving deeper and deeper into his supressed memories. Unsettling memories. “I tried to explain to my superior that Lionel was simply scared and confused and that he would’ve never deserted. But he…” a freezing wave washed over Hastings’ back, leaving him shivering and vulnerable. “He told me that he had always thought Lionel was too feminine for his liking, thus my superior was at most happy to see him go.”</p><p>After he spit it out, he felt like a utter garbage. Why so many people around him were so narrow-minded? So evil, so cruel… Lionel just needed a bit of understanding, comfort, and… and maybe love, but he received just a shameful tiny bit of it.</p><p>“Poor boy,” shaking his head, his heart throbbed painfully and his voice quivered with emotions. “I volunteered to go searching for him myself, but I was immediately said Lionel was already dead. And then they forbade me to let his family know, to send any letters, and to do utterly anything that could clean his name… I was being such a coward for listening to them,” he gritted through his teeth as disgust mingled with sadness and disappointment in a burst of unexpected anger.</p><p>Upon saying this, Hastings kept gazing into the flames, his palms clenched into fists and he didn’t even notice he was trembling till a gentle touch appeared on his forearm.</p><p>“Do not blame yourself for this, mon ami,” said the wise man whom Hastings hesitantly looked up to. “It would be a silly thing to do. I am sure you’ve done everything that you were allowed to, but unfortunately, some things are not meant to be.”</p><p>Hastings merely nodded and for a brief second he pondered whether Poirot was referring to something else. And such thoughts made him gulp as compassion washed over him, urging him to say, “There’s always a chance, I believe, but with Lionel… I don’t know...” he shook his head, lowering his gaze to the floor. “I… I’ve managed to forget. Not to think about it anymore. But now… I still feel as I failed him. Disappointed him… and myself. I just think there was something more I could’ve done,” he said tiredly, leaning back and bracing his head with the armrest.</p><p>As silence stretched between them, Hastings calmed down and realized that Poirot’s hand vanished from his forearm. Looking at his friend, he frowned. A thought, minute and weak, began its journey from the bottom of Hastings’ mind, but before Hastings let it fully unfold, Poirot locked their eyes. They were warm and focused as usually when he was looking at Hastings, but this time, there was something unreadable about them. Something that made Hastings shiver to the core of his bones, but even though he was baffled by that, he cautiously smiled. After all, it felt nice that Poirot didn’t judge him for what he had done, or hadn’t done.</p><p>“Would you like something to drink?” offered Hastings, eager to fulfil any task Poirot would entrust him with, and as Poirot admitted he’d like a glass of bourbon, Hastings enthusiastically got up and headed to the bar.</p><p>Suddenly, he was full of energy. Was is because of his confession? Or because of Poirot’s understanding? He didn’t know, but still he was left in awe when he looked back to the common room, from which Poirot was gazing in his direction, his lips twitching upwards in a tentative smile which Hastings willingly reciprocated. His heart hammering and a pleasant fluttering emerged from his stomach. Turning his eyes to the bar, he almost prayed the drinks would be prepared as soon as possible for he wanted to get back to Poirot, to be with him, to sit and talk with him… because he was the most understanding human being he could’ve ever wished for.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Nicolas Hobbs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As Hastings returned with their drinks, they embraced the silence among them for a while, each of them probably lost in their thoughts, yet the Poirot’s appeared to be too insistent to be tossed aside and ignored. Looking up from his glass, he fixed his eyes upon Hastings who was smiling absent-mindedly, a slight shadow of melancholy visible within his features. His brave, loyal Hastings… always eager to protect others, always frustrated when he couldn’t…</p><p>And maybe because of these ideas, maybe because of his gratitude, he watched his free hand being again placed on Hastings’ forearm, drawing his attention to Poirot, before the detective gently, with an unusual hint of insecurity, said, “Thank you, Hastings, for what you’ve done and said… earlier today, I mean.”</p><p>The smile that right away reached Hastings’ blue eyes went straight to Poirot’s heart, making it throb with affection as Hastings gazed at him with crystal clear happiness, which created such a poignant contrast to sorrow and guilt that tainted his face a while ago.</p><p>“Anytime, old thing,” Hastings almost whispered, quietly beaming with joy. “I was honestly afraid that I’ve said something I shouldn’t have…”</p><p>Poirot hadn’t expected such thoughtfulness from Hastings, however, it only made him appreciate the way Hastings kept accepting him, but a prior he could’ve proceed to praise his friend at least a bit, he was caught off guard by Hastings’ gesture in which he covered Poirot’s hand with his own. Looking all innocent, all friendly, with an admiring glint in his eyes, Poirot swallowed hard, trying to supress the thoughts, the emotions, the tremble… the hope that Hastings’ might’ve really been feeling the same, yet he didn’t comprehend.</p><p>But when they were together like that, Poirot felt the warmth of Hastings’ palm, the warmth of his gaze, it was too much for Poirot to simply ignore. He had been enamoured by his dear Hastings for so long and suddenly, it felt like there might a possibility. As he involuntarily shook with the tempting prospect, Hastings’ smile changed into a rather caring one.</p><p>“We should retire, it’s getting cold down here,” he remarked and as Poirot nodded, internally admitting that his feet were definitely close to be freezing, they withdrew their hands and in a companionable silence, they went upstairs.</p><p>And for the very first time in his whole life, a softly spoken <em>good night </em>sounded as a promise of something fragile, uncertain, but gaining its shape on the horizon.</p><p>XXXXX</p><p>“I understand nothing, Poirot,” sighed Hastings as he climbed into the Lagonda, waiting for Poirot to join him. “It wasn’t Arlington for there is no apparent motive. The maids had no motive as well. Miss St. Claire might’ve been able to do such atrocity as a murder, but Kirby wasn’t a military man… The trainer doesn’t make sense either, the chauffer and the dog handler weren’t in the building…”</p><p>Poirot’s lips twitched slightly, yet he maintained his façade while he informed Hastings that, “Yes, Hastings, but I am sure it wasn’t anybody from the outside. We have talked to all of the suspects, I believe, but the dog handler, Monsieur Nicolas Hobbs, is the only one we haven’t seen at his home. That is the reason I asked you to recover his address, mon ami.”</p><p>“I doubt he knows anything else,” shrugged Hastings as he started the engine. “After all, he wasn’t there at the time of the murder. Having his car serviced…”</p><p>Poirot understood why Hastings was grumbling, but it was too soon to let him know about the ideas Poirot had been musing on. They had to learn something more about Monsieur Hobbs now, Poirot had assumed, because he was the right person to cast some light on the case.</p><p>Upon their arrival, Mrs Hobbs informed them her husband should be back any minute now as he was about to return with the repaired car, and once she said it, the both men turned around to see a very old and very loud Ford. Even Poirot wondered whether it really was able to make several daily two-mile-trips to Arlington’s Manor and back.</p><p>“Mister Poirot! Captain!” the dog handler greeted them as he parked the car and joined the guests in front of the house, “How can I help you, gentlemen?” he said with a smile in his wife’s direction. The lady retreated back to the house, but Hobbs didn’t have apparently any intentions of inviting anybody in there.</p><p>“You had the car repaired?” asked Hastings with sheer interest.</p><p>“Yeah,” nodded Hobbs. “It’s a very old thing, but I wouldn’t change it for a new one.”</p><p>“What was the trouble?” Hastings followed the topic once more despite Poirot’s ironic gaze, but soon enough he persuaded the detective that his own methods could contribute the case as well – Hobbs’ expression suddenly displayed a remarkable amount of nervousness.</p><p>Scratching his scalp in embarrassment, he looked at the car and then at the guests, smiling uncertainly, “You know, I’m not an expert on cars, I just… heard a loud thump and I assumed it’d be for the best to let a professional look at it,” he admitted, but before Hastings could verbally react, a horse’s cry came from a rather small barn behind Hastings’ back.</p><p>“Heh, seems Bryony’s hungry,” Hobbs chuckled nervously, “Follow me if you want to talk,” he added in a seemingly good nature and then he headed for the barn from where a sharp knock on the wood resonated through the air. “I’m coming, girl!” Hobbs ensured the horse, and once Poirot and Hastings entered the barn as well, they saw a sole inhabited stall. The construction was barely holding it together, the wood was rather peeled, yet the smell was bearable, so with a wrinkled nose, Poirot moved inside and didn’t regret at all because the animal was heating up the space to such extend, Poirot removed his gloves.</p><p>A bit consoled, he watched Hobbs taking care of Bryony. The quite giant black horse was impatient, standing by the manger, and occasionally softly snorting, but as soon as Hobbs emptied the bucket full of something the horse was waiting for into the manger, Bryony without hesitation dug into it.</p><p>“I’m going to clean up her shoes now as when eating, it’s the only time when she stands still,” Hobbs grinned at them, took a hoof pick and bent to one of Bryony’s legs which the horse lifted right away.</p><p>“That’s a splendid animal,” admired Hastings the black horse. “It’s a Friesian one, isn’t it?”</p><p>“It is,” said Hobbs proudly. “A fine six-years-old mare. A great animal, really. Anytime my car breaks down, I ride her to work. There are no buses, you know.”</p><p>“Of course!” Hastings was apparently ecstatic about the topic, but Poirot didn’t mind at all as Hobbs revealed a bit of information Poirot found out to be useful.</p><p>“And isn’t she tired after such a long journey?” raised Poirot a question, but he had to wait for the answer till Hobbs narrowed his back, having cleaned up all Bryony’s hooves.</p><p>“Not, really,” he smiled, but the nervous shadow crossed his features again. “She likes running. So, you wanted to ask me something else or not?”</p><p>Poirot’s lips curled once again, his catlike eyes gleamed with deceitfulness as he proclaimed, “Could we return outside, please? I’d rather get some fresh air and I’ll immediately tell you what a silly matter brought us here.”</p><p>Because Hobbs agreed, leaving Bryony up to her meal and headed for the exit, Poirot leaned to Hastings, giving him a quiet task to observe the horse for anything that might strike him odd. Trusting fully Hastings’ good judgement in terms of horses, he followed the dog handler outside where he faced the man.</p><p>“Well, to be honest, Monsieur Hobbs, I’ve heard you have a horse and I wanted to ask whether you’d spare one worn out horseshoe. I’ve noticed them in Sir Arlington’s house and they gave me a quite funny thought that my apartment could also use such decoration as it is known to bring luck…”</p><p>Even though he didn’t enjoy lying or tricking people into anything, he was, indeed, glad Hobbs seemed to be relieved, still he shook his head.</p><p>“I’m afraid I do not have any,” he shrugged with an apologetic smile. “I regularly hand the used up ones to Mrs Peterson, one of Sir Arlington’s maids, who makes candlesticks of them… things like that, you know?”</p><p>“Intéressant, then I’ll ask her. Thank you very much, Monsieur Hobbs,” said Poirot and eagerly looked at Hastings whom just left the barn, “Shall we depart?”</p><p>As Hastings briefly nodded, the rattle of a window took Poirot’s attention.</p><p>“Nicky, can you check up on the cows? In the morning, one of them sort of coughed…” Mrs Hobbs leaned out of the window, her gaze stopping at Hobbs.</p><p>“Of course, dear, in a minute,” Hobbs agreed and his wife vanished back into the house. “Is that all, gentlemen?”</p><p>“Yes, indeed, thank you again, Monsieur Hobbs,” said Poirot and while Hobbs walked back into the barn, he looked at Hasting, yet his expectations could wait for a while. “Let’s get out of here. Back to Johnny’s, Hastings, please.”</p><p>Of course, he noticed that Hastings was quite slow on the uptake, but it could’ve been caused only by the fact that he had discovered something very significant for the case, which was Poirot keen to hear.</p><p>Passing by the reception at the guesthouse, Poirot was called to the phone.</p><p>“It is very promising, Sir.”</p><p>“No, no, no, everything is alright.”</p><p>“Yes, we would come in the afternoon, talking to Mrs Peterson.”</p><p>“Of course, Sir, thank you.”</p><p>“Arlington?” asked Hastings curiously as Poirot hung up, unbuttoning his coat and placing his hat on the rag.</p><p>“Yes, he endeavours to be polite as possible, but he is anxious to know the truth. Quite a nice combination,” he said, taking his seat in the dining room.</p><p>“Of course,” Hastings agreed quickly, sitting on the opposite side and combing his hair with his hand. “I still wonder whether they were…” he started, but blushing in the instant, he cleared his throat, babbling, “um, I… thought…”</p><p>“It does not matter anymore, mon ami,” Poirot decided to put stop to his nervous mumbling, “But if it consoles your incessant curiosity, I do not believe there was a romantic relationship because Monsieur Kirby wasn’t… like me. Sir Arlington might be, but I definitely don not intend to discuss the matter with him.”</p><p>Hastings’ blush got even deeper, his blue eyes being fixed on the table in front of him.</p><p>“However, I believe the motive was, indeed, of a different kind.”</p><p>“What kind?” Hastings’ eyes sprang up to Poirot’s brown pair where a humorous sparkle shone.</p><p>“You will learn it soon,” Poirot assured him. “Now, let’s talk about what you’ve found odd about the horse.”</p><p>“Well, I was watching Hobbs even when he was picking dirt from Bryony’s shoes and I noticed that one of the horseshoes was almost brand new. Not even a week old, I think,” began Hastings the list, the blush becoming a result of excitement instead of embarrassment. “And I praised the horse, but honestly, Poirot, she looked quite exhausted. There was no spark in her eyes, the coat was sort of dirty, and her legs… I don’t know, Poirot, but I’d bet she has made the journey to Manor more than once.”</p><p>“That’s what I was thinking,” Poirot merely nodded, bracing his chin with his palms.</p><p>Then they were for a short while interrupted by the waiter, asking what they’d like to have for lunch, but subsequently Hastings continued without hesitation.</p><p>“Moreover, now I’m sure I’ve heard of Nicolas Hobbs before,” was his voice low as he leaned towards Poirot over the table, locking their eyes. The blue ones were so intense and the excited glint within them seemed to be contagious as Poirot also felt his heartbeat accelerating, “He used to be a horse trainer some years ago. Quite a mediocre one. He was known as Nicky “Hickey” Hobbs, scandalous nickname I know, but it’s the reason why I haven’t remembered his full name… But when his wife called him Nicky, I recalled that he was finished with his training career like seven years ago. Since then, nobody has heard of him. He’s probably too ashamed…”</p><p>Poirot didn’t comment on it. He was silent, thinking. Furiously thinking. And planning.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Horseshoe...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the afternoon, they again ventured to the Arlington Manor where Poirot wished to speak to Arlington personally, therefore, he requested whether Hastings could stay in the common room, making sure nobody was going outside the house. Hastings didn’t object. The first minutes he spent alone, he was ogling the interior, the pictures, the horseshoes, and so on, but then he seated himself in one of the leather armchairs.</p><p>He seemed to be quite calm and comfortable on the outside, but there was a strange disorder gruelling within Hasting’s soul. He couldn’t wrap his mind around certain question that arouse during the preceding evening, during his conversation with Poirot after he had been blamed by Miss St. Claire for what he had or hadn’t done in the past.</p><p>He was a bit startled he hadn’t been thinking of Lionel in the post-war years. As if he, indeed, supressed the memories, or he might’ve had other things to dwell on. Or maybe he didn’t want to think about him because he was scared of it. He knew there was something between them, him and Lionel, but at that time, he wasn’t able to grasp it correctly, but being a good soldier, he assumed the fight was their priority, therefore, he neglected any other emotions towards Lionel save for compassion and fellowship.</p><p>But now, he felt there might’ve been something else that drew just the two of them together. A kind of hidden sense, hidden voice whispering they could make that work together, however, Hastings was utterly deaf to it, leaving Lionel to deal with it on his own. It could’ve been the last straw for the guy, knew Hastings as he leaned over his knees, sighing loudly as the deep regret forced its way out of his chest.</p><p>It drew them together as if they needed each other… Still he didn’t see it as a crystal clear fact that he could have romantic feelings for Lionel, or for another man in general, but once his thoughts flew and he began pondering whether he had ever felt anything similar to a man or a woman, his heart thundered in his ribcage when the chain of thoughts halted at one single person his life had been winding around for the past years – Poirot.</p><p><em>It drew them together as if they needed each other</em>, echoed inside his head as mantra that was about to incise in his brain. The only words he was capable of thinking, the only words that had ever made him perceive their relationship from a different perspective.</p><p>How could’ve he been so stupid?! he yelled at himself internally, his brows frowning. It was possible he had been feeling something towards Poirot for years and what had he done? He even admitted there was a possibility he would turn a man in because of this?!</p><p>He had never felt like such a hypocrite… like such an idiot. Like such an… such an… intolerant tactless cad!</p><p>He should’ve remembered Lionel sooner. Definitely. Yet, despite being angry and disgusted with himself, the idea of having feelings for a man intrigued him suddenly so much, his mind was rolling forward on its own accord, bringing back the memory of them, sitting next to each other. Specifically to the moment in which Poirot was touching his forearm and Hastings covered his hand involuntarily, as if it was absolutely natural to him.</p><p>He wanted to touch him, to reassure him that he was there for Poirot, that he cared about him, and that he could anytime rely on his loyalty, and an abrupt wave of heat ran over his back once Hastings recalled the fact that not only Poirot didn’t protest against such gesture, but Hastings believed his eyes grew softer and his smile…</p><p>Hastings’ heart gave a leap within his chest, beating violently as droplets of sweat appeared on Hastings’ forehead, his palms were wet as well. It was so hot in the room and Hasting’s didn’t understand it, but he didn’t care much at that time being, being utterly caught up in the tangled ball of memories and thoughts and emotions that suddenly made perfect sense, fitting into each other as it was supposed to years ago.  </p><p>When he looked at the evening with these newly gained knowledge, he was able to see that it was more than possible he had been… he had been at least enamoured by Poirot to such extend it bordered the delicacy of romantic love. With the revelation, fear and panic were lurking somewhere under the surface, but Hastings swallowed it down because for him, the idea of being in love with Poirot embodied a gift. The most precious gift he could’ve ever been given because there was not a chance Poirot would ever betrayed him or intentionally hurt him.</p><p>
  <em>They needed each other.</em>
</p><p>And maybe they really did, he conceded and smiled mildly at the memory of Poirot, being grateful that he had stood up to the journalist, for supporting him, trusting him almost blindly. Sheer joy and anticipation filled his chest once Hastings heard steps on the staircase, and looking up, he already knew it was Poirot.</p><p>For a brief moment, he gave in the web of doubts that made him dwell on the possibility he was lying to himself because there were women he had loved, he had always been taught to turn an invert in, he had always believed the law was right about that, but… As he was watching Poirot, these voices subsided because he asked himself an obvious question – Did I feel similarly when I was looking at Lionel?</p><p>And the answer was no, but not because his feelings for Poirot wouldn’t have been strong enough.</p><p>There were much more powerful. Intense. Genuine. And beautiful, Hastings thought as his lips automatically curved into a cheerful smile as Poirot stopped at the bottom of the staircase, watching him with a quiet satisfaction. His heart pounding, chest constricted with emotions, he saw Poirot reciprocate the smile that seemed ever so fond, ever so tender it assured Hastings that if Poirot could’ve ever forgiven him his density, his abhorrently judgemental nature, his dubious moral compass, then there was a possibility they were, indeed, drawn to each other not because they were so different, but because they had a certain thing in common.</p><p>Could it be the reason for not having any kind of relationship? There was the law, of course, but… well… Hastings felt he was on the verge of getting a headache from the incessant thinking, therefore, he opted for letting this matter slip away. After all, Poirot had just entered the kitchen in order to talk with Miss Peterson, which Hasting didn’t intend to miss.</p><p>He got up and in a span of a few seconds, he joined them in the kitchen where Miss Peterson was sitting at the table, opportunely tying two horseshoes together in elaborated knots. Other horseshoes were in a box, probably also waiting to be given a new purpose. Meanwhile, Poirot took out a little notebook, writing something on it and as he held it in front of Miss Peterson’s eyes, she nodded, smiling.</p><p>“Of course, Mister Hobbs brings me some from time to time and some of these,” she pointed to the stall, “he brought me just yesterday,” she said.</p><p>Poirot thanked her and looked into the box where Hastings’ eyes followed. At the first sight, there was nothing unusual about the horseshoes, but once Hastings realized Poirot was holding a handkerchief, reaching into the box, Hastings paid closer attention. Poirot carefully examined each of the horseshoes, some of them were a bit twisted, some of them just old and used up, but all of them were of the same size, definitely coming from Hobbs. They were quite ordinarily ornamented, so they would perfectly serve their purpose, however, these folds were the most common places were dirt got stuck…</p><p>But not only dirt could adhere well to such surface, a sudden thought crossed Hasting’s mind and with his eyes going wide in recognition, he briefly glanced at Poirot’s little smirk before his eyes sprang back to the one particular horseshoe Poirot was holding.</p><p>When he focused and looked at a certain spot, at a certain fold of the horseshoe, he saw it. A small, dark spot that definitely resembled dried blood. Otherwise, this one horseshoe looked polished, as if somebody desperately tried to clean it up, but that someone didn’t have enough patience to be as thorough as it would’ve been essential to fool Poirot.</p><p>“How did you know…?” Hastings whispered in awe. He would’ve never imagined that Poirot was still searching for the murder weapon as Japp’s chaps had found a horseshoe together with the killer’s coat and…</p><p>“The little grey cells told me that it is possible,” Poirot answered, wrapping the item in the handkerchief. “I have another task for you, my dear Hastings.”</p><p>“Yes, of course! Anything,” Hastings blurted out, blood boiling within his veins in excitement as the denouement of the case appeared to be within their reach.</p><p>“There is a way to find out whom Jack Kirby bought a horse from, yes? Even if it happened seven of eight years ago?” Poirot raised a question, curiously looking at Hastings who was a bit puzzled by the inquiry, but he quickly recovered.</p><p>“Of course, the Jockey Club have all the kinds of records. They certainly know it,” Hastings informed him. “Should I make the call?”</p><p>“No, no, Hastings, thank you, but I will do that myself,” said Poirot, smiling at Hastings as he handed him the horseshoe wrapped in the handkerchief. “I need you to drive this to London. To Japp, to be precise. Tell him, to have the blood analysed as soon as possible, so we can be sure and close the case tomorrow in the afternoon.”</p><p>“All right…” Hastings, again being slightly confused, took the horseshoe and shove it in the pocket. He didn’t mind going to London, the weather was still rather acceptable despite being the half of December. “And in the morning…?”</p><p>“I believe, you wouldn’t mind revisiting Monsieur Henderson in his stables,” Poirot stated instead of asking because he simply knew Hastings was going to be thrilled about that, which he definitely was.</p><p>“Not at all,” smiled Hastings broadly. In fact, he’d love to return there or even to watch horses exercise. He had no idea why Poirot wanted to go back there, but he didn’t doubt Poirot’s decision.</p><p>He then drove Poirot back to Johnny’s and set off to London, handing Japp the horseshoe over, and as he was driving back to Teddington, he was thinking about the case. Even though he didn’t suspect Hobbs at the beginning, now it seemed like a clear thing he killer Kirby. Somebody might’ve thrown the particular horseshoe among the others as Poirot told him before they parted, but more or less agreed with Poirot on the fact that Hobbs had a motive for killing Kirby, which they were yet to discover. And that Philip Henderson could cast some light on it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. ...and the Fireplace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My favourite chapter so far :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, Poirot found himself in Philip Henderson’s stable, however, not in the rather warm room, but right on the training track. Freezing wind wafting around his ears, biting into the skin, and it didn’t take long until the detective was shivering with cold. However, he needed his answers, which was the reason he agreed with Henderson’s offer to show them the exercise of the most talented young horse he had in training.</p><p>“It’s still too early to tell, but I already see her in the 1000 Guineas,” was Henderson apparently proud of the filly, and even though Poirot knew nothing about horses and 1000 Guineas, he didn’t interfere with the conversation Hastings was so passionate about.</p><p>“Definitely, she looks to be fast and mature enough already,” Hastings voiced his opinion. “Do you think she’ll handle a mile? Her father barely made seven furlongs…”</p><p>“But her mother was a winner on a mile and a half. It wasn’t a strong race, but I think that Corcovada got some stamina from her,” explained Henderson while they kept watching the two-year-old filly galloping nearby. “She seems fine,” said Henderson then and turned his attention to Poirot.</p><p>Finally, thought the detective when the trainer waited for the question Poirot had for him.</p><p>“Have you ever been to Sir Arlington’s manor?”</p><p>“Yes, twice, I guess, but not in the last… five years maybe?” Henderson shrugged. “Why?”</p><p>“I’d like to ask whether you’ve ever happened to encountered Sir Arlington’s dog handler?” Poirot said, aware of Hastings whom suddenly refrained from observing the working horses, looking right at him across Henderson’s shoulder.</p><p>Henderson frowned a bit, but then he shook his head.</p><p>“I don’t think so. No,” he replied. “I know he has some dogs, but...”</p><p>“However, I believe, you’ve heard of Nicky Hobbs, haven’t you? He used to be your colleague,” Poirot suggested.</p><p>“Barely a colleague,” Henderson snorted. “They guy was training for three or four years without getting a single winner in any of the better races. He was quite a lost cause, I’d say, and it was only for the best he had decided to quit.”</p><p>“And some of his horses came to your stable, yes?”</p><p>“Yes. Yes, they did,” seemed Henderson to be a bit surprised by the question, but he agreed, relaxing after a couple of seconds when he realized Poirot was smiling with satisfaction. “Jack bought two of them rather cheaply… I wasn’t very happy about it, but once I saw one of them working… Well, Troizilet immediately caught my eye.”</p><p>“That was the one who won…  the 2000 Guineas?” Poirot tried hopefully. He learnt about Troizilet from Sir Arlington when he was in his office the day before.</p><p>“2000 Guineas, Sussex Stakes and Champion Stakes, yes. He was an excellent horse, probably the best I’ve had,” a hint of nostalgia settled within Henderson’s eyes.</p><p>“And do you think that Monsieur Hobbs knew he had such a star in his stable back then?”</p><p>“If he had at least a tiny bit of so called trainer’s eye, then maybe, but… but then it doesn’t make sense that he sold Troizilet so cheaply,” Henderson was thinking aloud, adding, “It might’ve saved his career if he had sold Troizilet at an auction.”</p><p>And that was it. Poirot, pleased by what Henderson told him, but annoyed by the unceasing wind, said his goodbye to the trainer, being mirrored by Hastings whom was apparently reluctant to leave the track and the sight of working horses, the vapour coming from their nostrils, from the low thumps of their hooves, yet he followed Poirot away and then to the car.</p><p>“You are cold, my old friend, aren’t you?” he asked and a bunch of wrinkles of worries emerged on his forehead. “I’ll get us to Johnny’s as soon as possible.”</p><p>Poirot didn’t say a thing as he, indeed, was fighting the urge to chatter his teeth. Because of his inner excitement and satisfaction with the case, he was able to neglect the consequences of the freezing weather, however, right now he was the most genius piece of ice in the world. He didn’t say anything because he knew that talking Hastings out of a quick ride would make Hastings argue that he wanted to get him to the fireplace as soon as possible, even though that the speeding wind didn’t help in the slightest as well.</p><p>Therefore, he simply opted to suffer through the whole ride, occasionally cutting the air with a few French words of anger and frustration, palming his hands together. Once they arrived to Johnny’s, he didn’t feel any good when he left the Lagonda, but he still could rely on Hastings. He was constantly by his side, opening the door for him and chaperoning him to the common room where, surprisingly, were half a dozen people.</p><p>Usually, it was utterly empty, but now some people were currently playing cards at the table, and a couple of guests were reading on the sofa. The armchairs next to the fireplace were fortunately vacant, thus, Poirot headed for one of them, seating himself there and extending his frozen hands and feet towards the flames. As Hastings left him there, promising him a perfectly hot tisane, Poirot allowed himself a few more muttered curses, yet his mind was already fixed on Hastings whom had been again proving himself to be the best companion he could’ve ever wished for.</p><p>He knew him so well, he automatically realized what Poirot might wish right now, and even though Poirot was still freezing on the outside, a wave of warmth was spreading within his chest at the thought of how much Hastings cared.</p><p>“Here you go,” Poirot looked up as Hastings placed his tisane on the table next to them, but the both of them knew that it was too hot to be just held in hands. Poirot needed to get warm and he tried to grab his tisane in his gloves, but his fingers were still too numb to properly hold it, and the last thing Poirot wanted was to spill the hot beverage over his lap. With a quiet sigh, he turned back to the fire, pulling off the gloves, so the flames could bring his fingers back to life faster.</p><p>The room must’ve been well heated up itself, mused Poirot over the idea he got from Hastings whom hadn’t sit down yet as he was standing near the fire only in his shirt, sleeves rolled up above his elbows. With a confused blink, Poirot also noticed Hastings had eased his tie and together with his slightly flushed cheeks made him heavenly attractive.</p><p>Poirot shivered, and this time it wasn’t just due to the coldness of his limbs. The only thing that was sort of tainting the picture of Hastings’ casual appearance was the again apparent frown on his forehead, and the deep worries written in his features. Poirot knew Hastings was thoroughly thinking about something, maybe weighing his options, and then, without a word, without locking their eyes, Hastings made up his mind.</p><p>Poirot’s breath hitched in his throat as in awe, he watched Hastings getting on his knees. He knelt next to Poirot, his eyes focused on Poirot’s palms he reached his hands to, took them in his own, wrapping them in his broad and so warm palms, brushing Poirot’s wrists gently. Only then Poirot breathed out, shakily, as if he feared that each slight action would shattered the moment, maybe the dream he was having because Hastings, holding his hands, seemed to be so, so unreal. There was a knot within his chest, and Poirot had to breathe in properly to ease it a bit, but it was difficult when he couldn’t process this situation, when he couldn’t tear his gaze away.</p><p>His heart painful throbbing, chest aching with emotions, with gratitude and love towards his dearest Hastings who had just looked up to Poirot, his expression grave and worried. Honest, open, vulnerable.</p><p>As Hastings’ eyes meet his, Poirot gulped, suddenly helpless, suddenly having no idea how to react to such a public display of… affection? Yes, there definitely was affection, knew Poirot because Hastings’ eyes were glowing with so many emotions of such intensity that Poirot found it hard to swallow, yet he didn’t do anything to break the moment. After all, he was in the best hands he could’ve wished for.</p><p>His fingers weren’t numb anymore as they were getting heat from Hastings’ palms, and he tried to move them slightly, to get more blood in them, yet it only encouraged Hastings to held his hands firmly, brushing the skin once more so tenderly it again took Poirot’s breath away.</p><p>While Hastings returned his attention to Poirot’s hands, trying to warm them up by friction of their palms, Poirot was able to recover enough to take in consideration the other people in the room. Some of them were looking at them, puzzled, some of them seemed moved by Hastings’ gesture, and some of them were probably too absorbed in their deeds.</p><p>Despite that, Poirot cleared his throat, saying in an unsteady voice, “Hastings,” he addressed his friend whom looked up to him, smiling innocently and his blue eyes shining with sheer devotion. “Everybody is watching us.”</p><p>As if he wasn’t aware of it until the very moment, Hastings looked around and Poirot got an impression that his expression was… warning others who didn’t much hesitate to return to their occupations once Hastings returned his gaze to Poirot, seemingly undeterred.</p><p>“So be it,” he said firmly, eyes intense and beautiful as they were born into Poirot’s, “nobody can stop me from treating you the way you deserve.”</p><p>The determination, the rightness within his words hit Poirot hard, but not as hard another tender touch of Hastings’ thumb, stroking the skin of his wrist. Fascinated, with heart beating violently, with shivers running down his spine one after another, Poirot smiled at Hastings, feeling honoured to have him.</p><p>The ache in his chest almost unbearable, Poirot wanted to reciprocate Hastings’ affection, to show him how much he treasured him, but he still didn’t know how far Hastings’ affection would go, and moreover, it wasn’t the right time and the right place to endeavour figuring it out. Later. But much sooner than Poirot would’ve ever allowed himself to hope for.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Denouement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hastings was pleasantly thrilled. Leaning against the wooden wall in Arlington Manor, he glanced at the people who Poirot wanted to witness the grand denouement. The both maids were seated on the sofa, so Miss St. Claire (who was untiringly flashing Hastings with disgusted looks, yet Hastings was in such high spirits, she didn’t have any power over him) could repeat everything right into Mrs Petersons’ ear. Sir Arlington occupied one of the armchairs. The chauffer, Kenneth Prince was sitting on a chair next to the door as if he really didn’t care much about the case. The butler, Blythe Dunwoody, stood just a few steps away from Hastings, his back also almost leaning to the wall.</p><p>Once the door opened, Hastings nodded at Japp who came in, greeted Poirot, quietly said something to him and stepped aside. Hastings hoped it was something positive about the horseshoe, and because Poirot’s expression beamed with quiet satisfaction for a brief second, Hastings assumed the news was, indeed, rather good.</p><p>After a few minutes, the second armchair was occupied by Philip Henderson whose look lingered on Miss St. Claire who gave him a surprised, yet very pleased smile. Hastings smiled as well. Even though Miss St. Claire accused him of something he hadn’t done, he wished her to find some happiness in her life, which seemed to be possible around a decent man Philip Henderson seemed to be.</p><p>And then, Hastings’ eyes drifted towards the blond man in a beige coat, leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. Trying to look casual, his hands were deep in the pockets, but his posture was strained. Hastings doubted he would show up, but after all, if he didn’t, it would be completely clear who had murdered Jack Kirby. Right now, he might’ve been still hoping Poirot didn’t unearth his dirty secret.</p><p>It felt weird, Hastings thought when Poirot began his speech, but Hastings was watching mostly Nicolas Hobbs whom noticed his look and nervously smiled in his direction. And Hastings for some reason smiled back because… because he remembered their first conversation here, in this very room, and the way he felt about Hobbs. He was friendly, seemed open, and just alright.</p><p>And Hastings was still struggling to believe that such an amicable person was responsible for a murder of a man who provided him with a job. But in Hobbs’ eyes, it was a humiliating job he didn’t deserve.</p><p>Being a bit disappointed with his behaviour, he rather opted for listening to Poirot. Japp was already moving towards Hobbs, standing close to him.</p><p>“This case was not the most peculiar Hercule Poirot has ever encountered, yet my efficiency might have been slightly hampered by the fact I do not understand the world of horse racing, however, being a quick learner, I soon enough learnt what might have been a motive which would be for an ordinary man rather… unusual,” Poirot spoke to his audience. “And of course, at first, I did not much expected the murder was connected to horse racing as it seemed the motive was of a different sort. Or at least, the killer wished me to think so. A mysterious figure, dressed as our dear dog handler, waiting for Monsieur Kirby to be alone and vulnerable… But then, I realized, the murderer must have been someone who resides in the house, or often visits it.”</p><p>For there was not many people, the kind of expected excited hum was not that loud or disturbing to stop Poirot from further elaboration.</p><p>“Yes, indeed, once I questioned everyone who could be involved, I pondered where to move next when I received a very interesting piece of information,” he smiled, looking at the quite bored chauffer. “Monsieur Price, would you be so kind to stand under the staircase and call the dogs, please?”</p><p>Price looked annoyed, but still he quickly glanced at Arlington, who seemed to be puzzled, but he nodded, thus Price did as he was told so. In a span of a few seconds, the three German Sheppards dashed out from their room and ran down the stairs, sniffling happily at Price.</p><p>“On Monsieur Kirby’s hands and sleeves, there were traces of dog saliva,” declared Poirot. “And because I knew thanks to Sir Arlington that Monsieur Kirby was scared of dogs, he didn’t feed them or pat them. The dogs aren’t allowed here, so I assumed, the dogs knew the murderer, and they ran to him even though they weren’t supposed to. If the visitor was someone strange, the dogs would’ve barked, I believe, but they were quiet, and because nobody heard them, they must’ve ran down the back staircase after somebody fed them and as usual, didn’t close the door.”</p><p>“Could you please tell us who did it, please?” Arlington started to be impatient and he whistled. The sharp sound had an immediate reaction as the dogs obediently retreated from the common room, took the back staircase and returned to their room. “Kenneth, please, close the front door of their room.”</p><p>Price nodded and went up to fulfil the task while Poirot proceeded to the further explanation.</p><p>“As I knew it was somebody from the house who was dressed up as Monsieur Hobbs, I was interested in the motive once again, but it was Monsiuer Henderson who gave me the idea it really might’ve been connected to horse racing and to the community around it. As Monsieur Kirby was buying horses, once he bought a rather cheap horse that later on became a champion. How this could’ve been a motive? Well, this one particular horse names Troizilet was linked to three people– Monsieur Henderson, Monsieur Kirby, and Monsieur Hobbs,” Poirot turned towards Nicolas Hobbs who seemed to be startled, yet his expression changed into a furious one when he realized who was seated in front of him, but with back facing him.</p><p>It was Philip Henderson who was now facing Hobbs.</p><p>“That’s the reason you asked me about Nicky Hickey?” he looked straight at Poirot, incredulous, but then he returned his attention to Hobbs. “Where have you been hiding for so long, Hickey?”</p><p>“Monsieur Hobbs is Sir Arlington’s dog handler, hired by Monsieur Kirby, I believe,” Poirot informed him. “And he became so about five years, after Monsieur Kirby bought Troizilet from him for quite a low price. Then he put him to your stable, Monsieur Henderson, where you made a star of him.”</p><p>“It should’ve been my star!” shouted Hobbs suddenly, the rage boiling within him to such extend, he wasn’t able to control himself. “He stole him away from me!”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” Henderson asked sceptically, but it was a proper time for Poirot to intervene again.</p><p>“But Monsieur Kirby didn’t stole the horse, am I right, Monsieurr Hobbs? As I was informed, the horse looked like a bad one at the first sight, but you saw a champion in him, however, Monsieur Kirby managed to talk you out of it. He convinced you that you are finished and should leave the sport at least with some dignity, without putting everything in one single horse… He bought Troizilet under the impression he was helping you, but once the horse became a champion… You knew that Jack Kirby outsmarted you. And you wanted your revenge.”</p><p>“Isn’t a murder too radical?” Henderson doubted, suddenly being prone to protect Hobbs as if the disdain on his part was just a part of the culture, of something he really didn’t believe in.</p><p>“Murder is always radical, Monsieur Henderson,” said Poirot gravely. “But I believe, that it was also for Monsieur Hobbs whom just wanted to talk to Monsieur Kirby. To awake a sense of self-reflexion in him, which would made him apologize and maybe offer Monsieur Hobbs a way of compensation, yet Monsieur Kirby didn’t want hear of it. However, he took pity on M Monsieur Hobbs’ state, giving him a job of dog handler, which might’ve been only a joke, but Monsieur Hobbs accepted, not refraining from the plan of revenge at all.”</p><p>“But… but… if it was him, why had he been waiting for so long? For two years?” Arlington spoke up finally, obviously confused by the amount of information.</p><p>“You hadn’t been pondering murder until the day before the murder, had you?” Poirot turned again to Nicolas Hobbs from whose casual charm remained literally nothing. Slumped against the wall, he seemed to be defeated.</p><p>“No…” he murmured. “I only wanted… something…”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know what, because if you had had Troizilet, he would’ve never become a champion,” seemed Henderson to be persuaded enough to finally pick the side, nagging Hobbs for the final time.</p><p>“Shut up,” Hobbs snarled, but as he felt Japp’s broad hand upon his shoulder, he didn’t make a single move.</p><p>“But you’ve found the coat and the horseshoe…” said Arlington. “Are you saying that Hobbs was here even though he had a day off? That he…”</p><p>“Exactement, Sir Arlington,” Poirot smiled mildly at the master of the house. “At that point of time, everything was a part of Hobbs’ plan.”</p><p>The eyes of all people in the room turned towards Nicolas Hobbs, leaning to the wall, look pointed to the ground. Then he nodded slowly.</p><p>“Yes, I… I’ve never really wanted to kill Jack, but when Bryony lost her shoe and I felt its heaviness in my hand… The plan came too naturally to let it slip away. It felt like an omen.”</p><p>“Moreover, your wife started to be quite fed up with your job, wasn’t she? You realized that if Sir Arlington knew you were a horse trainer, he could offer you Monsieur Kirby’s place.”</p><p>“Yes… Yes, I did,” Hobbs admitted and if there was any last piece of resistance remaining, it vanished it the very moment. “I followed the plan, hoped no one would notice me. I knew the routine of the maids and was aware Jack was about to get up earlier as there was an auction he wanted to visit. I cuddled with the dogs to calm myself down, and then I went down to kill him…”</p><p>“With the horseshoe,” Poirot added and Hobbs nodded. “You rode your horse here and then, to get rid of the coat, you travelled in a different direction, using the stream to cover the trail. Then you dropped the coat and a different horseshoe to fool the police. The true murder weapon ended up in the stall with the other used up horseshoes. Of course, after you’ve tried to clean it up.”</p><p>“Yes, sir, yes, I did,” Hobbs said quietly and only then Hastings figured out, the man might’ve been even glad Poirot solved the case. He seemed to be so defeated and suddenly so obviously haunted by guilt that Hastings somehow knew that Hobbs would eventually turn himself in.</p><p>It was a matter of time, he thought, having his consciousness a bit consoled. He had estimated Hobbs correctly. He wasn’t a guy who would take murder easily, it wasn’t in his nature, yet he managed to do it. For his wife, probably.</p><p>Who knows, shrugged Hastings mentally, what else could a decent chap drive to a murder. He definitely wasn’t on Hobbs’ side, however, he wasn’t able to feel disdain towards him. In fact, he didn’t feel anything when he looked at his face, haunted, tired, and sad.</p><p>And Hastings being an emphatic guy, Hobbs’ sadness somehow managed to infect him as well, therefore, he stayed where he was, absorbed in his emotions, until he noticed Japp taking Hobbs away, the rest of people quiet, and Poirot standing in front of him.</p><p>“You acknowledge, Hastings, that it would’ve taken me longer to solve the case if it weren’t for you, mon ami?” Poirot asked him, voice soft, yet playful.</p><p>Hastings knew it wasn’t easy for him to admit something like that, so he literally beamed at him, happy that he had really contributed this time.</p><p>“With these horseshoe prints in the mud… I had my suspicion the horse must’ve been at Arlington Manor more than just once in the past days, but only you confirmed to me that M Hobbs’ horse was exhausted from excessive rides. Not mentioning, these facts about horse racing and the possible bad blood between the former trainer and the man who bought a hopeful horse cheaply from him,” Poirot’s lips were still grazed by a mild smile that aimed right at Hastings’ heart, as the warm smile too intensely resembled the one Poirot gave him earlier in the day, when he decided to warm up his hands, and…</p><p>“Thank you, mon ami, for your invaluable help,” continued Poirot, causing Hastings’ chest to ache with emotions, with need to show Poirot even more how much he treasured his words, but the man took his breath away once he revealed, “therefore, I discussed with Sir Arlington that on the Boxing Day, we are welcome at the Kempton Racecourse to witness some jump races… If you’d like, of course.”</p><p>“Dear Lord, Poirot, of course I’d love to!” Hastings was ecstatic that Poirot was willing to join him at the races. Grateful, the urge to do anything to let go at least a bit of the powerful energy, pilling within him, made him restless. His palm sweating, he was almost shaking with the intensity of feelings, of happiness, of affection, he didn’t know how to curb himself anymore, he wanted… he wanted to…</p><p>Out of blue, it was perfectly clear what he wanted. And it shook him internally, but not that much as he would’ve expected, moreover, the realization absorbed some of the energy as if it was a kind of an explosion, leaving him just slightly shaky, but content.</p><p>Content, because in Poirot’s eyes, he saw his friend was curious what was about to come. Maybe terrified, maybe prepared to warn Hastings they weren’t alone, but definitely curious.</p><p>“Shall we return to London?” he asked instead, coveting the privacy of Poirot’s apartment suddenly.</p><p>“Yes, Hastings,” Poirot agreed quite enthusiastically. “I’m afraid, I have enough of your picturesque English countryside,” added Poirot and Hastings could easily see why, so they in a span of an hour headed back to the civilization Poirot desired, and the privacy Hastings wished for.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. The Warmest Touch Is the One of a Friend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Poirot truly wished to spend the evening only with Hastings, but after all, he felt tired and saw that Hastings was sleepy as well. Once they arrived to London, they stopped to have their dinner, and then, the both of them quite quickly retired. It had been some exhausting days, he mused when his head hit the pillow and he fell asleep in the very next moment.</p><p>Despite the fact the case was over, Poirot woke up, feeling unusually restless. As if he was anticipating something, as if he was looking forward to something, and even though he didn’t want to adhere to false hope, once he finished his breakfast, his eyes sprung up to Hastings whom just appeared in the door frame. His hair scandalously ruffled, which hit Poirot hard, leaving his mouth dry and eyes transfixed on his friend whose shy smile seemed utterly incompatible with the kind of thoughts, crossing Poirot’s mind.</p><p>“Good morning,” said Hastings, approaching the table, sitting right next to Poirot.</p><p>“Good morning, Hastings, would you like to have some breakfast?” Poirot offered what he had prepared for him, quite sure Hastings was hungry because he always was.</p><p>“Of course, thank you, old thing,” Hastings accepted happily, and was almost silent for a few following minutes, eating as if he was starving for days. It brought a touched smile upon Poirot’s lips. “Would you like to celebrate the successfully closed case?” he asked after a while.</p><p>“You have something on your mind?”</p><p>“Nothing in particular,” Hastings admitted, looking into his cup of tea, thinking. “Maybe we could…” he started, but trailed off once he pointed his eyes out of the window. “Well, I hoped we could just go for a walk to the park, but… it’s snowing.”</p><p>Unaware of this fact, Poirot also looked outside where, indeed, the sky gained a certain shade of grey and snow was falling down in something that resembled a thick fluffy curtain. Even though it possessed some magic when witnessing it from the cosiness of the room, Poirot definitely wasn’t eager to feel the cold weather upon his skin, even when covered in numerous layers of clothes.</p><p>“But if you’d buy me something I need, I can prepare a spectacular meal for the dinner that could serve us as a way of celebration,” Poirot suggested a solution that could be acceptable for the both of them.</p><p>“Call it a deal,” smiled Hastings one of his most happy smiles before he ate another toast. Poirot reciprocated the gestures, genuinely cheerful he could again cook for his dearest friend.</p><p>So the day went by uneventfully, Hastings bought everything Poirot asked him to, they had small lunch together, and then Poirot got in the cooking again while Hastings kept him entertained with conversation, or when the chef demanded silence, so he could focus, Hastings just occupied himself with the newspaper.</p><p>Everything seemed to be as it used to be, yet Poirot couldn’t shake off the feeling of anticipation. He was working carefully and efficiently, but occasionally he noticed that his own eyes were too often lingering on Hastings, moreover, he was well aware how much he was enjoying such an ordinary day which they devoted only to mundane acts such as reading, cooking, and talking. No rush, no pressure, just sheer joy of being together.</p><p>And the calm, yet slightly unnerving atmosphere appeared to remain among them the whole day until the dinner was being served, and Poirot even got used to the odd tingle in his upper stomach. However, once they finished the meal, he lay the cutlery aside and just before he could commence a conversation, Hastings took his breath away. His hand, lying on the table, was covered by Hastings’ one.</p><p>“It was splendid, Poirot, thank you very much,” said Hastings softly, his blue eyes gleaming with gratitude and fondness, which together with the warm touch brought Poirot into a state in which he was only able to smile at Hastings, fighting the urge to turn his palm upside down and to… But then again, Hastings wasn’t withdrawing his hand, quite the opposite. He brushed the skin of Poirot’s hand, and Poirot noticed the very subtle change in his expression as if… as if something feral was hiding underneath all the kindness he was usually displaying.</p><p>It caught Poirot off guard, however, it also made his heartbeat speed up, and the storm of thoughts was raging within his mind and soul. He gulped, and still smiling mildly at his friend, he moved his hand, gauging Hastings’ possible reaction, but as he shifted his hand enough to turn his palm up, the previous anticipation returned even stronger. Clasping their hands, Poirot heard his own breath being audible as he opened his mouth in disbelief, in awe, because Hastings held his hand deliberately while looking right into his eyes.</p><p>His cheeks were flushed though, Poirot noticed and let his eyes roam over Hastings’ face, stopping at his delicately shaped lips. His heart skipped at the sight and the thought of kissing them, yet it also arose a wave of fear within him, making him look up to Hastings’ eyes again, being ever so startled for a moment that he contemplated pulling away his hand.</p><p>And Hastings let him, yet his smile didn’t fade away.</p><p>“May I help you with the dishes?” he asked, and Poirot wanted to reply that it was unthinkable, but then he remembered they were celebrating the case after all, therefore, there was not need he should exclude Hastings from such a task.</p><p>“That’d be very nice of you, Hastings,” smiling gently at him, Poirot marvelled at the happy grin Hastings gave him. Subsequently, they tidied up the table, and as Poirot dove the dishes into the sink, by the corner of his eye he observed Hastings. How it was possible that he could, unaware, put on a show when rolling up his sleeves? Poirot didn’t understand, yet he didn’t complain either, and seeing his handsome friend just in his shirt, with rolled up sleeves and eased up tie, he felt at most insecure within his close proximity.</p><p>Therefore, he rather focused on the dishes, but once Hastings appeared at his right side with a towel, his attention was slipping regularly towards him. Feeling the heat emanating from Hastings’ body, Poirot more than twice dropped already clean plate back into the water, but Hastings didn’t say a thing as he might’ve been absorbed in his own thoughts because suddenly he spoke up, “Have you ever been in love, Poirot?”</p><p>The question hit Poirot hard, fortunately he’d just handed Hastings the last plate, so there was nothing he could be dropping anymore. He wasn’t sure what Hastings was aiming at, but a single look at the man told Poirot that Hastings was utterly serious. Blue eyes fixed upon his face, alerted and bright, and there was a thin wrinkle upon his forehead.</p><p>“I have, mon ami, I have,” Poirot admitted carefully as if the signals Hastings kept giving him weren’t enough, as if he was reluctant to believe, which he was because…</p><p>“May we sit down?” Hastings’ another question stopped the chain of Poirot’s thoughts, yet he was glad for the suggestion.</p><p>“Bein sûr,” he nodded, took off the apron and followed Hastings to the common room where his friend remained standing, apparently clueless about what to do next. “Sit on the sofa, please,” Poirot offered, a bit puzzled by Hastings’ behaviour as just a moment before he was quite self-confident, enjoying himself, and suddenly, he seemed to be lost.</p><p>Poirot would’ve offered him some alcohol, however, once Hastings sat down, his blue eyes were fixed on Poirot again, and Poirot got an impression that his friend was about to explode with emotions. He needed to do or to say something, being desperate about it, therefore, Poirot opted for silence. However, he couldn’t refrain from closing the distance between them as Hastings was so lost, so much caught up in his own despair… He sat down next to him, yet cautiously leaving some space between them.</p><p>“I must… I must apologize to you, my old friend,” said Hastings, looking at his hands, rubbing nervously his thighs. “I’ve done something horrible, almost unforgivable, and I have no idea whether I’ll ever be able to make it up to you.”</p><p>With these words said, Hastings’ weary gaze was locked with Poirot’s while he noticed how sincere Hastings was. However, Poirot didn’t have a clue what Hastings was talking about, thus he might’ve frowned a little, which only contributed to Hastings’ anxiety.</p><p>“I have… I’ve reacted in the way only a true hypocrite would have, I’m afraid,” he continued, yet his courage probably vanished as he again was staring somewhere on his hands.</p><p>“What are you referring to, mon ami?” Poirot asked softly his nervous friend, and even though he knew it could unsettle him further, he hoped that a reassuring touch on the arm would help. Planting his hand on the said part of Hastings’ body, he felt as his friend shivered, blue eyes immediately gazing in his direction, bewildered, yet devoted and loving… so loving it made Poirot’s heart swell with ache, he trembled as well, and a wave of intense vibrations was spreading from his lower belly to his limbs.</p><p>“A week ago, I was discussing a very delicate matter with you, and I was a total cad when I was loudly pondering whether to turn a homosexual man in, Poirot, but… all the time… I’ve…” he stuttered, stopping for a while to inhale properly as he was shaking violently, the guilt eating him up alive.</p><p>Poirot noticed it and firmed his grip on Hastings’ shoulder. Despite Hastings hadn’t said everything yet, it all started to make sense to Poirot, the hope within him blossoming remarkably.</p><p>Hastings buried his look again into the ground, his cheeks red, his body as if on fire, and still, he was brave enough to spoke up again.</p><p>“I think… I think I’ve been the same all the time, but I’ve been too dense to understand. To comprehend what I was feeling, what I felt for…” pausing to breathe in again, and most importantly to calm his voice down as he looked straight into Poirot’s eyes, “What I’ve been feeling for you. I know that you don’t have to feel the same, but I’m obliged to tell you that I’ve been in love with you probably for years, and that I was too stupid to realize it and…”</p><p>While Hastings was searching for words, Poirot was staring at his friend without blinking, without breathing, without thinking.</p><p>Hastings was really in love with him, was the only thing resonating within his mind.</p><p>The only words, bearing the only thing he had never achieved during his life – having a romantic relationship he had genuinely desired to have. And here they were. Hastings pouring his heart out, apologizing for not noticing, breaking down for being too dense to understand his feelings…</p><p>“Hastings,” Poirot addressed the still slightly shaking man, who focused on his face, waiting for Poirot to speak again in the quivering, soft voice, “Are you sure about that?”</p><p>And once Hastings nodded, only then Poirot acknowledged how remarkable this week had been. It took him revealing his secret and just a few nudges for Hastings to comprehend, to make him look at him gravely and with determination, and despite he kept resembling a lost puppy, he knew.</p><p>“I’m sure my feelings for you exceed the boundaries of friendship, old thing,” Hastings said, his voice raw with emotions, which made Poirot’s heart throb, his chest constricted with everything he had been feeling for his dear friend for years, and which now… finally… seemed to be reciprocated. “I… I’d like more than…” looking down, he clasped Poirot’s hand in his, before he met the brown pair of eyes again.</p><p>“I want more than holding your hand… Poirot, I want…”</p><p>Chaos raging within Hastings’ eyes, his red cheeks, sped up breath, the warm hand touching his own... Poirot smiled, moved and happy, and so much in love with his Hastings whom was struggling for words, being cute and irresistible at once.</p><p>“What do you want, Arthur?” Poirot squeezed his hand as he looked right into Hasting’s eyes, noticing the heat emanating from his body. He hoped, God, he wished Hastings was about to decide rather quickly because curbing his desire to kiss his friend was becoming unbearable.</p><p>“You,” answered Hastings quietly, but his heart on the sleeve. “I want you,” he repeated and his words surged directly into Poirot’s soul, leaving his expression vulnerably open. He knew he was smiling at Hastings, he knew his eyes were gentling with each second, and that he was firmly squeezing Hastings’ hand, yet the Englishman didn’t seem to mind.</p><p>Realizing that Poirot didn’t intend to decline, he timidly smiled back.</p><p>“I’m sorry it took so long, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to engage in any type of relationship due to the danger we could put ourselves into and…”</p><p>“I guess, my dear Arthur, that you’ve said it clearly to that rude journalist,” Poirot interrupted him with subtle grin, “there’s nothing shameful about two men sharing an apartment. Unless we are indiscreet, I believe, such nosy people will leave us alone out of fear from you and your wrath.”</p><p>“That’s true,” chuckled Hastings before his face regained the shadow of shyness, and he put his other hand on top of their connected ones, a question emanating from his eyes, “So… will you ever be able to forgive me for being such a blind and tactless imbecile?”</p><p>It was unquestionable that it hurt to think that they could’ve been together much earlier, but Poirot pushed all the regrets away, reminding himself to focus on the presence that was at most alluring, and the future tempting especially when shared with such a handsome and heavenly loyal man at his side. After all, there wasn’t anything else Poirot could’ve wished for, and because he knew that, he let himself get lost in the joy, filling up his soul, and he surrendered to the impulse to touch Arthur even more.</p><p>With a little smile tinting his lips, Poirot raised his palm and planted it on Hastings’ face, with a few words on the tip of his tongue, “Yes, my dear Arthur, I forgive you, but you must promise that you are going to make the time up to me,” twitched the corner of his mouth playfully, which Hastings noticed, however, Poriot quickly figured out that Hastings’ thoughts probably went beyond what Poirot was talking about.</p><p>Again, there appeared something hungry and almost feral in the depths of Hastings’ eyes, and in combination with his burning cheeks, he evolved into the hottest form of Arthur Hastings which Poirot could’ve ever anticipated. As heat became boiling under his skin, Poirot didn’t waste any seconds, and leaned towards Hastings whom didn’t hesitate as well.</p><p>With heart violently beating, an unusual feeling of contentment was spreading through his chest as their lips met, and a thought <em>that he was kissing Hastings </em>crossed his mind. Of course, he was excited and he kissed him with sheer enthusiasm, he tenderly brushed his hair like he had wanted so many times, but… contentment was the most intense feeling here, stretching into every inch of his body, making him cling to Hastings, making him seek the comfort of his arms, which was soon enough provided as Arthur put a hand on his shoulder, urging their bodies closer.</p><p>It felt like his life goal was accomplished, like everything was making sense, like there wasn’t a more beautiful thing in the world than kissing the man he loved with his whole heart, and therefore, Poirot stopped cherishing the softness of Hastings’ lips and drew back, only to whisper those little words of remarkable power, “I am in love with you, too, mon cher Arthur. For years… and counting.”</p><p>And as the burden fell off his shoulders, he felt free, he felt free to plunge into their second kiss that was ever so gentle, ever so slow, and he at most admired how smooth Hastings’ hair felt under his fingers.</p><p>The fire within him was reignited after what was like centuries, and he knew he didn’t want to refrain from other activities, but he also didn’t intent to scare off Hastings who had just discovered himself. So settling for being allowed to touch and kiss and love Arthur, Poirot revelled in those delicate little sounds Hastings was making while their kiss deepened, while they shifted closer, so they were literally pressing their bodies into each other, while the promise that Poirot wasn’t going to be cold again ever again was made because…</p><p>…because the warmest touch is the one of a friend… of a friend turning a partner… and possibly… possibly turning a lover…</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you very much for your support and kind words. I'm happy that stories about Hercule Poirot and Arthur Hastings are still popular and that... that there are still some people who love them as much as I do. Thank you again and enjoy this last, on intimacy focused chapter :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following day they mostly spent together, which pleased Hastings immensely. Just a dozen days ago he wasn’t even thinking about needing Poirot so close to him so often, but now it pained him to watch him go only to the other side of the room. It was physically challenging to cease touching him and seeing him, and he truly could say, he was head over heels for his friend.</p><p>It still seemed unreal, but Hastings quickly adapted to the new situation and he was literally living for kissing Poirot as it was something he had yearned whole life. The uplifting feeling of happiness was filling him up, making him smile even in the late evening of the 24<sup>th</sup> December when he was left alone in Poirot’s apartment for a couple of hours.</p><p>Poirot was invited to a banquet and because he had accepted a month ago, he was adamant about going, and Hastings didn’t try to talk him out of it. He made his promise, so he didn’t want Poirot to break it. After all, they had their dinner together, and only then Poirot departed. Hasting at first read a bit of newspaper, but then, pleasantly tired by the splendid meal, he stretched on the sofa with a brief contemplating session on his mind.</p><p>However, after a few minutes, he fell asleep with a little smile creasing his lips, and he woke up only to see Poirot, sitting on a chair next to his head, looking down at him fondly. He looked absolutely dashing in the black smoking, Hastings thought right away, flashing his friend with a sleepy, yet happy grin.</p><p>“Good evening, mon cher Arthur,” Poirot greeted him, leaning down to place a gentle kiss upon Hastings’ forehead.</p><p>Hastings literally beamed at him, thrilled to have Poirot back, so they could spend the rest of the evening together.</p><p>“How was the banquet?” he asked politely while pondering whether he should sit upright, or whether he was too comfortable to do so, but before he opted for any of these options, Poirot sort of showed Hastings what he should do. Burying his fingers in Hastings’ hair, caressing him gently, he kept looking down at the Englishman fondly, apparently satisfied with the current situation.</p><p>“Mademoiselle Nicholls was a very attentive host, and in terms of her guests, I enjoyed a conversation with Mademoiselle Mullins whom was very much informed about her horse running on Boxing day. She appears to be sure that Cold But Sincere is going to win in Kempton Park,” Poirot’s smiled once he saw the hint of surprise crossing Hastings’ features.</p><p>“I’ve already placed my money on Mollycoddled,” he said without real thinking, but then he refocused on Poirot, smiling slightly, “But you’ve received the tip, so you could bet yourself.”</p><p>“I might,” conceded Poirot while brushing Hastings’ hair once more time, and then his fingers slid lower, touching Hastings’ cheek that was gaining a shadow of pink colour, the blue of his eyes becoming slightly darker as Hastings’ smile also changed. From the content one, he was giving Poirot a pleased but anticipated one, and leaning into Poirot’s hand, he reached out to grip on Poirot’s collar, gently tugging the man down.</p><p>And Poirot let him, so in a span of a few seconds, their lips met in a slow, languid kiss which Hastings relished with every fibre of his body. Involuntarily shaking, he dove into the kiss, brushing the smooth lips with his tongue before he exhaled deeply, feeling so comfortable and loved when he opened his mouth, allowing their tongues to meet, which sent his skin on fire. The touch, so intense, so forbidden, yet so delightful formed a little sound within Hastings’ throat, and the Englishman moaned softy, quietly, but suddenly… suddenly Hastings knew that it was just the first sound he was about to make during this very evening. With growing anticipation he noticed that Poirot only deepened the kiss and Hastings moaned once again when he realized that Poirot’s kiss was becoming more hungry, more demanding, and Hastings was totally happy to let that happen.</p><p>To let happen anything, absolutely anything, he thought incoherently, eagerly as he brushed the skin of Poirot’s neck before slipping his fingers under his shirt. He moved a bit up on the sofa, so he reached more of his lover, yet soon enough he knew that Poirot had other intentions, his hand travelling lower to slide his hand under the hem of Hastings’ sweater and shirt, spreading his palm upon Hasting’s stomach.</p><p>Trembling and quietly moaning, Hastings felt as his cheeks were burning, his blood boiling, his heart swelling when he breathlessly tried to comprehend what was happening. Poirot was kissing him hungrily while touching his lower belly, while making him desperate just by a single touch because he was longing for something more…</p><p>His hips were quivering with lust, with silent cry for some friction as he desired Poirot so much, he desired to be touched, to touch his, to make him his because that was the only thing cruising through Hastings’ mind and blood.</p><p>When their lips parted, Hastings literally gasped when focusing on Poirot whose lips were shiny with saliva, swollen after their almost feral kiss, and his eyes…</p><p>Absolutely speechless, Hastings just stared at Poirot, his own heartbeat ringing within his ears, yet still he was able to catch Poirot’s quickened breath. He desired him. He wanted him so much that Hastings didn’t waste another second and smashing their lips together again, he shifted his hand back to Poirot’s neck, clumsily trying to lose his collar, which he accomplished rather swiftly, however… however all of his focus was abruptly shattered once the touch of Poirot’s hand slid nearer his waist.</p><p>Hastings’ hips canted as if he had no self-control, but Poirot didn’t say a thing, didn’t frown or anything like that. He just sweetly and softly moaned into the kiss, sending Hastings’ hips up again, yet this time… this time they met with Poirot’s hand, gripping on Hasting’s arousal firmly, yet gently.</p><p>In the past, he would’ve never thought about needing a man like now, what about man, anybody… He would’ve never thought to need anybody so much to touch him as now, and Poirot did so. Hastings trembled, his mind going utterly blank, and he even withdrew from the kiss as the hand upon his groin started to move up and down. His eyes sliding behind his lids, his mouth slightly agape when he realized that Poirot was going to take this further, slipping his hand under his trousers and underwear, which made Hastings moan loudly.</p><p>Opening his eyes again, another audible groan ripped from the core of his chest as Poirot’s warm fingers wrapped around his shaft, taming his lust a bit just to enhance it in the next second. With each movement Hastings needed more, and he was so happy, so glad that Poirot decided to touch him like that, like a man should’ve ever touched another man, but Hastings was ecstatic he did so.</p><p>Looking at Hercule, Arthur had never seen anything or anybody more beautiful in the world, and with his hips meeting Poirot’s hand with each stroke of his delicate hand, he kissed Hercule, slowly, gratefully, and lovingly while Poirot was bringing him such pleasure he had never ever hoped for, never ever thought of, but here they were. Poirot touching him in the most intimate way, kissing him softly, yet as Arthur drew back to look into the depths of Hercule’s eyes, fire ignited within his chest once again as the bashful lust gleamed in there.</p><p>At the bashful lust gleaming there when he was looking at him, when he was stroking his hard member, when they were breaking the law. But this time, Hastings wasn’t thinking of it this way.</p><p>As he was becoming hungrier and hungrier with each touch, he yearned for something else, for something that would make him utterly, unconditionally believe that they were doing this… that Hercule was driving at bringing him an orgasm.</p><p> “Take me out, Hercule,” Hastings said, voice raspy and dripping with lust, mirroring within Poirot’s dark brown eyes which for a brief second sparkled with confusion, yet once he understood, Hastings pointed his eyes at his crotch. His breath got stuck within his throat, his arousal growing just at the sight of his erection, being released from the confinement of his clothing, being held by Hercule’s palm, stroked, caressed, and so hard it was beyond his senses.</p><p>With eyes at the top of his head, he watched the spectacle in front of him, bringing him the most delicate pleasure in the world, playing the symphony of sinfulness right in front of his eyes, and his mouth watered, his blood boiling with arousal when Hercule sped up the pace, causing the waves of pleasure to wash over him one after another, robbing him of his breath, and Hastings, mesmerized by the sight, leaned into Poirot’s side.</p><p>He heard his breathing, smelled his perfume, and he closed his eyes for a while before he realized he should do something as well. Planting a soft kiss upon Poirot’s bare neck, he was rewarded with a surprised, sharp exhale. Arthur absent-mindedly smiled, and while he was drawn closer and closer to the peak of all the pleasure, he still amassed enough self-control to use his mouth upon Poirot’s neck, kissing him, sucking on the skin, and his palm sneaking under the already eased up collar. Feeling Hercule’s warm skin, his chest hair under his fingers, he whimpered meekly, being so turned on, yet so much in love, yet so much happy.</p><p>An underlying need to have the most of Poirot as was possible, his palm spread upon Hercule’s chest, feeling its heaving, feeling its warmth, and as he planted another clumsy kiss on Poirot’s neck, he heard his moan once again, louder this time. Being overwhelmed by the fast tempo of Poirot’s hand, Arthur panted, and with another shudder, with another groan his body tensed. Pressing his forehead into Poirot’s chest, he closed his eyes, his hips canted for the last time as the final wave of blinding pleasure flooded him, turning his mind completely blank, his fingernails digging into the soft skin of Poirot’s chest.</p><p>Arthur would’ve been lying if he’d said he had ever experienced anything more heated, intimate, and unbelievably beautiful. He was a lucky man, he knew as he inhaled properly, and looking up to the face of Hercule Poirot, he was grinning like the happy goof he was. To his immense joy, Poirot’s smile was also quite devilish.</p><p>“Are you enjoying our evening already, my love?” was the question which Poirot voiced in a soft, yet teasing tone, causing Hastings’ smile broaden into a regular grin.</p><p>“I am,” he leaned in, “You know I am,” he said and utterly loving being in the centre of Poirot’s attention, he closed the distance between them. Kissing him again, he let his palm roam under Poirot’s smoking, caressing the skin while he at most cherished their slow kiss, its wetness, its delicacy.</p><p>However, he wasn’t able to resist the temptation to repay Poirot his ministrations, and because Hercule didn’t stop him in the slightest, Hastings withdrew his hand and quite daringly placed it upon his thigh, being quite clear about his imminent intentions. And Poirot’s meek moan and the subtlest movement of his hips gave Arthur the only encouragement he was asking for.</p><p>Hastings drew in a short, sharp breath once his fingers reached hardness he hoped for, yet he still was caught off guard that Poirot was, indeed, so much affected by the situation. Yes, he was, and Hastings involuntarily trembled at the feeling of something so heavy and hot in his palm, and giving Hercule the first couple of strokes, he smiled as Poirot produced a subtle moan which was the most delightful sound to Hastings’ ears and soul.</p><p>Saving looking down for another occasion, Arthur fumbled his way into Poirot’s trousers while he occupied his mouth again with the sensitive skin of Poirot’s neck, licking it, sucking it gently, planting numerous of kisses there as his palm finally gripped upon the hard shaft. He heard Hercule failing to supress another moan, and therefore Hastings voiced his wish, “Give in, mon amour, please…” he said, already aware that Poirot sort of liked when he was speaking French even though his accent was horrible.</p><p>From this moment on, Hercule didn’t hold himself back too much, and Arthur was beaming with joy and pride and love at the beautiful sounds of desire and pleasure Poirot was granting him with. Enhancing the pace, Arthur kept treating Poirot’s neck where he could feel his rapid pulse, where he could watch the heaving of his chest, and Hastings moaned quietly himself, feeling Hercule’s fingers within his own hair, at first just caressing him, then gripping in a vain attempt of regaining self-control Hasting was successfully robbing him of.</p><p>Not to get carried away, Hastings refrain from sucking on Poirot’s skin, and as he narrowed a bit, he was at most pleasantly surprised by Hercule’s expression, by his slightly opened mouth, closed eyes, by the wrinkle upon his forehead as if he was in a strain, as if he focused on something, but the thing was that in a span of a few seconds, he relaxed and a smug smile creped on Arthur’s face. He certainly love bringing Poirot as much pleasure as he could.</p><p>Pulling out a handkerchief out of his pocket, Hastings wiped his hand right after he gave Poirot’s the last touch, and then he again transfixed his gaze on Hercule’s eyes, sparkling with mischief and quite curiously with a happy content at once.</p><p>Without any further words, Hastings leaned in and kissed Poirot gently, lovingly, before he hugged him, burying him face in his chest, and sighing happily once Hercule hugged him back.</p><p>“Do you know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” Hastings asked quietly from the confinement of Hercule’s arms.</p><p>“I’m not sure, but I can imagine,” chuckled Poirot, being very good-humoured. “It does concern our case, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“It does,” Arthur agreed, snuggling even closer to the love of his life as he added quietly, yet honestly and contently, “I’ve never loved anybody more intensely, more sincerely than you, Hercule. And I’ve never thought it’s even possible to love somebody so much…”</p><p>“I understand,” Hercule ruffled his hair and shivering slightly once Hastings again slipped his hand under Poirot’s smoking, touching his chest. “I feel the same. I’ve never thought it would be possible for me to love you more and more.”</p><p>And so they sat there for a while, cherishing each other’s company in the way that was meant for them – in each other’s arms.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The story's almost finished, but the chapters are going to be uploaded irregulary due to my busy schedule at school/work, in other words, I still have to check them for all kinds of errors (but truth be told, I usually neglect many of them, but... well, that's a different story). I hopy you enjoy this piece of work as much as I enjoyed writing it :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>